A Thousand Sordid Images
by Vyscaria
Summary: A Bedouin girl of the desert finds herself plunged into the world of the assassins, in which concubines cry and Templar Knights are kind. In pursuing her destiny, she unveils dangerous secrets which force her to question her faith in Allah, her loyalty to her heart, and what it means to be a woman during the Third Crusade. Altair/OC, Malik/OC. M!OC/M!OC slash also involved.
1. Image 0: Rani

**A Thousand Sordid Images  
**Assassin's Creed

Summary: A gypsy girl of the desert finds herself plunged into the world of the assassins. In pursuing her destiny, she unveils dangerous secrets which force her to question her faith, her loyalty, and what it means to be a woman.

Pairings: Altair/OC, Malik/OC. M!OC/M!OC.

Warnings: Mentions of rape. There will be a slash male/male relationship between two original characters.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or its characters, nor do I profit from this fanfic.

* * *

_At that one moment she was reminded of a story Al Mualim had told her many years ago, when she was still a child and not yet a spy for the assassins. The story spoke of a woman whose two children were captured and sentenced to death for some crime or another, and she had to choose between which child to save. The other child would, of course, perish. But if she were to refuse a choice, both of them would die. Would that be fair, then?_

_"Your decisions will not be easy, our lives are not just. You will struggle dearly if you think too much, child."_

_And here, more than a decade later, here were her choices._

_She touched the assassin's pendent and pressed the cold metal to her breast. A three-pointed design, she thought ruefully. There were three directions in which she could go from here._

_Her horse was sleekly muscled and very well groomed. He could take her anywhere she so desired. Bright feather plumes licked her face as he shook his magnificent mane._

_She could return to Jerusalem._

_She could go to Masyaf._

_Or she could run away to the desert and find the cluster of tents by its edge…_

_But what would greet her there?_

_In Jerusalem there waited an uncertain future with a one armed man._

_In Masyaf she would find a dangerous present under the wing of a great eagle._

_In the desert her past would chase after her, perhaps dead or perhaps still alive and mourning her absence._

* * *

In a distant memory, she remembered.

Bewilderment, confusion, terror. Despite it all, she was glad she had experienced it as a child, a child who was old enough to act but too young to grasp the morbid injustice of the ordeal. Hers was a story that was told in bits and pieces to those who asked, never whole- it was too much for her. It hurt to remember they were the same girl.

Al Mualim had been wise to change her name. It was like starting fresh- Aasha, hope. She had cut herself from her past like dismissing a traitorous friend, rejecting all alternatives with vehemence. She tried to forget, knowing her life was bound to Al Mualim to do as he pleased.

But in a distant memory, sometimes even in her dreams, she saw a thousand sordid images.

* * *

It was not her mother's attentions or_ ayah'_s prodding, but rather the sound of men praising Allah that woke Rani. Confused and still drugged with sleep, her feet led her across her family's small charpoi where she stepped over her youngest brother who was playing with dirt on the floor, too young to understand the celebration. She lifted the flap of their tent and greeted the morning. Idly plucking the knots from her hair, she regarded the sun with sleep drugged eyes. It peeked out from quickly retreating storm clouds, rain still falling lightly. Her sister was still sleeping.

Her father, a lighthearted nomad by the name of Omar, was already loading up their cart with straw. It was rare that there be rain on the edge of the desert, so when it did rain, everyone jumped to their feet to praise Allah. Her _ayah_ was leading Tamanna, their oldest female camel, to her place next to the_ tonga_, where the rest of the camels were already rounded up and waiting. Tamanna was set to breed with Shaaim, the youngest and most virile camel this year. Rani's mother, Sharma, was already busy milking the goats, and her brothers stood by impatiently, waiting for mother to finish so they could play tricks on the poor creatures. It was time for the trip to their great watering hole. There, her father would let the camels drink and pray for a good litter. Their lives depended on it. The sky continued to weep slowly, and the young girl's chadr robe felt chilly with dampness and the ever growing breeze. The air carried the fresh scent of a faraway paradise.

"Go inside and help your mother, Rani," her father said to her as he heaved yet another layer of hay into the tonga. "I will take your brother's company for today."

"But _abbun_," she protested, digging her toes into the warming sand with delight, "I'd love to see the watering hole this year…" She eyed the mentioned brother suspiciously, feeling rather betrayed. Omar looked back at his daughter steadily with what could only be described as boredom.

He did not reply, but Rani understood nonetheless.

Her mother and _ayah_ were waiting for her first bleeding. Gone were the days when Rani was free to pull on her favorite _shalwar kameez_ to climb the thorn bushes. Those memories were veiled now by the_ chadr_ she donned every morning that stretched so long it was almost impossible to run without tangling her feet in its thick cloth and toppling over. The rich women in the cities had chadrs made of the finest silk, thin as air. When Rani first saw them, she was six and absolutely terrified- the bright colors stung at her eyes, the strong fragrances made her head spin. Their gleaming skin smelt of the purest jasmine oil. Instead of envy, the desert dwellers, who could only afford to visit the city market something like once a year, eyed them with a steadiness that came with self assurance- pride of their husky voices and beautiful sapphire nights, pride in their families and loyalty to Allah, who delivered to them bountiful harvests each year.

Her father stole a look at her and managed a smile, even if impatient. He always seemed to know her thoughts. "Do not worry, Rani. If Tammana gives birth to a good litter this year, we will make more money in the markets. I promise to buy you a bead necklace!" He pressed a finger against her nose playfully, though Rani was not fazed. He always liked to say something to this effect whenever they fussed. Besides, she did not want another bead necklace. "Thank you, father," she said, knowing it would not matter, as he tended to forget these things the very next day.

She watched helplessly as her father led our total of five camels away from their camp and disappeared over the horizon, her brother Mudil trailing lazily after him with a stick in his hand. He didn't even hug her and say goodbye anymore. Mudhil used to play with Rani all the time as children, when they could both run about the sands wearing only the sky. But then one day their mother declared it a bad thing that they hug each other naked, and put clothes on them both. Then the children were abruptly ashamed of themselves, for then they knew that they were different from one another. That was years ago, and Mudhil still regarded Rani with distance. They were brother and sister and shared the same blood, but being man and woman separated them first and foremost.

The girl huffed and tidied her hair, pulling it back into a long thick braid, and woke her sister. Aside from the morning rain, the day began as usual. Little did Rani know that this would be the last day she'd spend with her mother and father.

Her sister was fourteen and lovely, her breasts having grown round and perky with the last harvest. Suddenly boys and marriage were all she could speak of, and Rani often touched herself at night and lamented how flat her chest was- she didn't understand why she was different. Engaged to their cousin Mohammed, Radha's eyes squeezed with contentment. He was a good man, and would make a fine husband.

Rani couldn't help but smile as Radha struggled to choose a pair of shoes. They only had two pairs each, both handmade and colored like mud. The rain finally stopped. The two girls were to collect water to take back to their camp at the edge of the desert, and they took one pot each and balanced them over their heads with practiced movements. They scarce said goodbye to their mother as they left, this outing was so routine.

Together they talked about Mohammed, how his jaw looked so strong and how he and Radha would raise many sons to work on their farm.

"If I ate plenty of lentils and butter," Radha was saying, "I would surely have fat and healthy sons that would look just like Mohammed."

"The wedding is still a whole season away," Rani laughed, "you'll have enough time to indulge yourself. You do know that father is buying saffron from the market?"

"Really?" She blinked twice, feigning surprise. "Saffron is expensive, why would he do that?"

"And turmeric too," Rani added with no small amount of poorly concealed disdain. _Why should their father spend so much money on Radha's wedding? Didn't he remember that he had another daughter, too?_

The older girl grinned smugly, teasingly. A somewhat cold silence settled between them for a few moments. When their pots were at last full, the two turned to walk back, laughing and gossiping once again. The sound of camel bells rang out faintly across the undulating planes of sand, and Radha was the first to notice it. It could not be their father. And indeed, the fat men who rose above the dunes wore intricately embroidered caps, finely woven vests, and gold rings on each hand. When they laughed, their gold teeth glinted in the sun. Their saddles were inlaid with precious fabrics and weighted with heavy sacks. Frowning, Rani kept her head low, she and her sister keeping a wide berth around the men. These men did not belong in the desert. They must have been there to deal sorrow or to profit from illicit smuggling.

They were noticed regardless.

"Well then, what have we here?" One of the men called out, roughly tugging the camel's reins and digging his heels into its sides. The camel gave a low grunt and trotted towards the two. Radha's supple fingers clenched around the water jar. She stood defiantly, the bangles on her arms clinking while she balanced a jug of water and a basket of laundry over her head. Rani noticed how Radha's face was uncovered, and felt fear striking her chest. Her legs became like two sticks dropped on the ground.

The men came ever closer, smiling at them and whispering among themselves. "Whoever made the most gold last night gets the tall one," the first man said to his companion, who smirked. He had a handsome face, but the thought of him heaving and sweating over her sister made Rani's stomach churn. Radha was shaking with fear. "Come," Rani whispered hoarsely to her sister, "let's run."

The two girls made a quick decision, flinging their pots filled with water at the four men with all their might, dashing off as soon as the impact knocked two of them off their camels and soaked their clothes. Their feet were fast and well adapted to the sand, but their chadrs tangled at their feet. With the men chasing after them, swearing and angry, they ran for their lives. Radha fell first, and they took her away screaming and crying. Rani yelled for her sister, turning back and latching herself onto one of the mens' arms, biting down on the muscled flesh as hard as she could. She was backhanded, the man's jeweled ring leaving a thin gash across her cheek. Radha cried then, because their lives were over. No one could save them now.

* * *

_End of chapter 1._

* * *

I can't believe someone read all of this. Koodos! Please keep reading for important information. :)

Rani's story is not at all uncommon for women -particularly those of low social status- during this period. While reading this fic, I implore all readers to keep in mind the cultural paradigms of the era. Not all women eagerly rebelled to join armies and the such, as our westernized point of view would lead us to believe.

I love historical fiction, and am attempting to portray these people in this specific era as accurately as possible. This story is my own interpretation of women in the assassin's order. I must, however, confess that I have not completed all of the games and my knowledge of the fandom is limited to other fanfiction and my research. There will likely be some deviations from the canon storyline, but major events such as Solomon's Temple will still take place.

**I welcome and encourage all criticism, questions, and input. Or just review to make me happy. :D Feedback is always a writer's best friend.** Since my research is hasty, I would appreciate being made aware of any major inconsistencies that take away from the story in an obvious manner.


	2. Image 67: Aasha

Thank you to my lovely reviewers iz didn't do it, CourtGoesRawR, and Rindou Kiara! You guys rock.

* * *

_The men carried them away, restrained, gagged, and blindfolded on the backs of their camels. They worked against their bonds, but it was of no use. The men stripped their bangles and precious things from their bodies; they took Rani's brass bangles but left the worthless bead necklace hanging at her neck. She heard her sister's desperate whimpering pleads behind the strip of cloth wedged in her mouth, and her chest constricted. When at last they stopped, they'd journeyed for what felt like days, and the two of them were sick with fever and anxiety. The two desert girls, gypsies really, had no inkling of their new whereabouts. Just that the air smelled rank and the streets were loud. Then they were sold together, an easy affair comprising of rough fondles and the clinking of coins being handed over. Still blindfolded, they heard a goat being traded as well, their kidnappers cruelly unimpressed with the price they were getting for them both. Bruised from the cramped space and lying in their own vomit and filth, they were fed and given water but treated worse than animals. Somehow the two held onto their faith that all would be right, and amidst their misery they found themselves utterly complacent. Then they were taken to their new home. For two months Radha's new husband raped her relentlessly. She bled between her legs and cried and cried and clawed at the injustice she was being dealt until her nails cracked and fell off._

_For two months Rani's life was a hazy dream. Their captor didn't come for her, he didn't touch her- she was too young to conceive, not yet worth his effort. Her mind felt detached from her body. She didn't understand at the time what was truly going on, and Radha refused to explain when Rani asked. All the younger knew was that her sister was suffering dearly. As she spooned thin broth between Radha's bruised and cracked lips, trying to stop her from choking on her own sobs, Rani wondered if all this was real. How could this have happened? The girls had heard similar tragedies befall other families, but never had they thought it could happen to them. They held each other and cried every night after he left, mourning for their mother's embrace and their father's kind voice. They must think they were dead by now. They must have grieved, their mother would have clutched at her chest and sobbed. Their father would have shed silent tears, and their brothers would have wallowed in misery they couldn't yet understand. And what of Mohammed, who professed his love to Radha just days before everything had changed? They missed home, the kind smiles and love. Instead they were trapped in this house, forced to live in a single room that smelled of years of rancid ghee and centuries of dust. And until Radha pledged her life to her new husband, Abdul would not even allow them the smallest of liberties. They were trapped in the musty room that could only have been meant for servants, with Abdul entering once or twice each day to set down breads and water and watch them eat as if they were merely his pets._

_Ripped of their lives, the girls' will was breaking. They were strong daughters of the desert, however, and they comforted themselves despite the dark times. Rani would nurse Radha to health, and though her body mended each time, some part of her mind broke away and shriveled into herself. She was never the same again._

_"I will tell Adbul I am with child," Radha said abruptly one hot night, "and he will allow you to work his fields; you are strong enough."_

_She didn't say any more after that, just drifted off to sleep, but Rani bit her lip and couldn't stop the tears. She reached across the stained charpoi and drew her sleeping sister to her chest, her tears falling into the crook of Radha's neck. _

* * *

She arrived in a mess- her clothes were bloodied and her hair was uncovered and matted with dirt. She was defensive like a wounded animal, and to many of the assassins that described her perfectly. They didn't understand her words, but even so Al Mualim seemed impressed. He led her away by the hand even when none cared to touch her.

After the Grand Master took her in, they taught her Arabic first, just enough so they could glean a better understanding of exactly who she was. They clothed her in apprentices' clothes and fed her. Usually they did not take children in front the street, certainly not into the fortress, but Al Mualim said that this gypsy girl arrived at a very conspicuous time. _Midsummer, _when the sun and moon took equal reign over the sky.

A scholar who was familiar with desert dialects was called. She spoke little at first, regarding her surroundings with wide eyes. In bits and pieces, she managed to relay the last few hellish weeks to the kind scholar, whose stomach turned with the very thought.

"We will keep her," the Grand Master assured the scholar when the distressed man made clear his concern, "do not fear."

Al Mualim was expecting the girl to run off in the night, but instead she humbly obeyed every order barked at her. _She was like a pigeon,_ he mused- as soon as she laid eyes on him, he who had saved her from starvation and an untimely death, he became the center of her universe. Like a baby bird emerging out of its shell to see a man, or an elephant, or a cat. Immediately and unquestionably, the bird would swear to the man, elephant or cat its complete loyalty.

After the initial fear and panic wore off, Rani proved to be an able student. The connections between proper Arabic and her poetic desert tongue were subtle yet significant- it simply took comparison and explanation with help of a translator for an easy transition. What seemed to be a completely foreign language turned out to be a different dialect, and it was soon determined that the girl would become fluent in Arabic. Nonetheless, the scholar stressed to Al Mualim that the accent would likely remain.

Like with the youngest of children, the old scholar would smooth out the sand on the ground with his hand, and then with a stick would draw symbols onto the dirt. "This is_ alif_," and he made her repeat it and draw the same symbol. Then he would move on, drawing something else: "this is _ba'a._" Slowly and painstakingly, Rani learned the Arabic alphabet. When Mistress Khitan, the coordinator for the female apprentices, discovered this she was furious. Surely the Grand Master was not considering keeping her here permanently! Rani was separated from the other young apprentices. She knew too little and would not be able to socialize until she had a better grasp of the language.

But day after day Rani was taught the basics of communication, and as more of her story was unveiled Al Mualim seemed to take a keen interest.

"She will never learn our ways quickly enough," she trailed after him one evening, determined not to let him out of her sight, "I have enough apprentices to take care of as it is, and do pardon my insolence, but she is too old and too rash."

The old man finally rested himself on a bench overlooking the lush lime and jasmine trees in the garden, the lanterns casting a soft light over the scene. The dry season had come and gone, and blossoms flourished in the clay pots lining the garden's walls. Sounds of gentle lapping water from the garden's fountain veiled the din of the city, of children playing and carts being loaded with merchandise. The great banyan trees swayed peacefully. The sun was slowly loosening its grip on the city, and Al Mualim adored this time of day.

"Then we will do all we can," Al Mualim said, "teach her our tongue and let her make friends with your apprentices. We will not turn a pleading child away."

"We are not a charity," the old mistress cut in, wringing her hands. Finally, she heaved a sigh and appeared to succumb, but continued to pace the length of the garden. "What would you have me do with her, then? Would you make her a concubine for the assassins?"

"No."

"She is too old to take lessons in mathematics and literature. It will take all our efforts to make her fluent in our language. She's currently illiterate and cannot count, Grand Master."

"Neither can Altair, and they are about the same age."

Khitan gaped. "But… But he is a separate case, Grand Master." Though it was true that Al Mualim's latest prodigy showed utter incompetence in all things academic, he was like a miracle on the obstacle courses. When he would learn the blade, there was no doubt in her mind that he'd prove to be a genius with it. Rani, however, was a girl and her worth was not determined by her physical ability. Besides, considering under what circumstances Altair came beneath their care, they had more than a moral obligation to take the boy in.

Al Mualim was silent for a while, and in the dim glow of the lanterns Khitan could barely make out the old man's glazed expression. She waited. Finally, he shifted a bit and changed the subject, "what can you tell me about her past? Where did she come from, the Dom?"

"She is indeed Gypsy," Khitan reported dutifully, "but her parents are nomadic camel herders, not thieves. It is possible that her family had ties from the east, but that is unimportant. She and her sister were kidnapped and sold to a man in Jerusalem, who bedded her sister."

Al Mualim scarcely blinked. Such happenings were not uncommon. "And what of her?"

"She is untouched, or so she claims."

"Very well. What happened then?"

"They escaped, Grand Master. Rani buried some supplies each day in the sand behind the man's house and built up a stash. They slipped out on horseback one day and sold what they'd collected. Her sister perished from an accident involving the horse, and the girl found herself here."

"Then we are fortunate to have come across her so young. How is she reacting to your teachings?"

Mistress Khitan huffed. She wanted the gypsy gone; she didn't have time for her, but she was also obliged to report the truth. If only Rani had reacted poorly, had any sort of behavioral issue, then it would've been easy to get rid of her. But the girl had been completely obedient so far, and it was getting on her nerves. "She is eager to learn from me and eager to forget herself. I asked her last night if she'd want to be returned to her family, and she refused. More afraid than anything else, I presume."

Al Mualim seemed pleased, "we will send her to the instructors to be taught separately at a fast pace, so that she may learn what is required in time before she is fourteen."

Having had enough, the mistress threw her hands up in a gesture of exasperation, "Master! She is illiterate, she is an outsider! She will cause you nothing but trouble and resentment!"

"What would you have me do, then?" The Grand Master snapped suddenly, "turn away a blessing from Allah? So what if she cannot read or write? She can learn. She has a spirit that I want to see blossom. A Dom, Khitan! Be they thieves or not, they have a way about them that is hard to find in the sprawling cities. I've seen those city apprentices of yours. They scramble at the sight of a bug!" Besides, he noticed her glassy almond eyes and petal lips and saw the potential for beauty. The assassins have long used women as distractions, as instigators, as spies for collecting reconnaissance. This was made all the more relevant by the Holy War between the Muslims and the Franj that tore their land apart. In addition, Templar meddling interfered with their work constantly. Al Mualim was prepared to defend the spy's importance against their most skilled killer.

"You cannot know she will come to possess all these great qualities you speak of," Khitan countered. "You-"

Al Mualim cut in harshly, "then you will ensure that she does. I intend to make her a spy, Mistress. Exotic concubines are common as dirt in the city, but one with a spirit like hers is hard to find. Perhaps it was Allah's will that she found herself at our gate on Midsummer's day, the beginning of the battle season. Perhaps it is a blessing that she lived as Dom for so long. She perhaps will retain their spirit." He rose to his feet, his aged joints cracking in protest, "Hm… View it like a gamble, my girl. The investment is minimal, but the winnings may be massive. She didn't come here expecting luxury, Khitan. I will see to it that a place is found for her. Have hope." He nodded politely to the mistress, who was still simmering beneath the surface. But one look at his eyes, which crinkled at the edges with buried wisdom, and the Mistress was silenced.

"Yes, Grand Master."

Al Mualim began his steady trek to his quarters. Khitan stood there watching aimlessly, her checkered palms itching. As the distance between them increased, she burst out with a final question, "how would I introduce her to my apprentices?"

The Father did not even slow his pace, did not even turn around as he made his way up the stone steps. "She will be Aasha, and we bought her from her family in the desert. There was no struggle. No need to hide her origins, but do hide her experiences."

"Yes, Grand Master." Khitan curtsied, though Al Mualim was already long gone.

* * *

"Why don't you want to go back, child?" The middle aged woman demanded, her coarse long hair unbraided and uncovered. "I could arrange it."

The child frowned, confused, "but Al Mualim saved my life."

"That he did."

"So my life belongs to him," Aasha explained, "I must repay his kindness in some way." Her family taught her to be honorable, to repay good deeds in the name of Allah. Once her brother was bitten by a poisonous snake while in the city, and a stranger took him to his home and treated him while he was delirious with fever. Then, just as her devastated parents were about to give up their search, the stranger delivered Mudil back to them. They praised Allah and promised the man that they would repay his kindness. Later that year when the man's eldest son died and he had no one to work his fields, their father sent Mudil into the city to till his soil and irrigate his crops for a whole season.

"Your life is worth nothing to us," Khitan sighed, hoping the girl would not detect she was merely trying to be rid of her, "you must understand that our job is to kill, to take lives."

"To… kill." They were assassins. Aasha didn't know much about them or what they did, but her father never held them to contempt whenever he mentioned their work. And besides, she was treated with such kindness here- maybe they were a type of soldier?

"Do you have any idea of the gravity of this decision? There is no turning back, girl."

"Yes," she said quickly, "I understand."

Khitan refused to give up her attempts, "why don't you tell me where your family is?" If she could have the child wanting desperately to go home, maybe Al Mualim would consider her appeal.

Aasha lowered her dark eyes, keenly aware of the woman's distaste towards her, "You will not find them, uma."

The truth remained that her family were nomads. They were more than likely no longer in the same place, and only Allah knew where they'd decided to take up shelter next. Though Aasha yearned to be reunited with her family, the heavy shame of returning alone froze her very thoughts and made her hands tremble. And would she even be marriageable? This girl who was kidnapped and held captive by slavers… Who would believe her virtue then? The men would call her a witch.

"What did you call me?"

"Uma?" _Mother._

A look of disdain, "don't call me that. I am your mistress, you will treat me with respect."

A blank stare. _What was more respectful than that?_

Khitan shifted, looking slightly wary. "Listen then, child. Al Mualim has decided that you will remain with this Order, and as such I suppose you will not be able to leave."

Aasha stared at her with wide eyes. Then why had she even taunted her with the possibility of return? _Was this some sort of test?_

But no, she steeled her resolve. Her heart ached for her family greatly, but Allah had delivered her here, given her clothes and shelter and food. She would receive a better life here, and that was all her father had ever worked towards.

For some reason, the bones in her body held her feet heavy to the ground. Her intuition flared out at her, and it was as if her mother was there, slapping her wrist and telling her to stay where she was and _don't you dare move_.

She dropped to her knees and fell prostrate, but the Mistress' cold eyes showed no sign of satisfaction. Her visage was impenetrable, and for a moment Aasha thought she would have her sent away regardless. Her forehead brushed the floor. Her breath was caught, waiting.

"Well then," Mistress Khitan said at last, "your life will expand quickly before you. Prepare yourself, tomorrow morning we begin lessons."

* * *

As Mistress Khitan had feared, Aasha was an immediate outsider; a desert girl, uneducated, uncivilized. Her apprentices, all daughters of landowners or assassins, regarded the girl with disgust. They whispered about her to her face, and held tight in their small social circles. They made Khitan's head ache, but she was busy with administrative matters and could not be bothered to involve herself.

There was something about her that unsettled the others. The way she went about barefoot, wearing the heavy ankle bracelet of the nomads, singing odd songs in a foreign tongue. She'd jump into thorn bushes to hide, and come out laughing! The other girls turned their nose up and thought her a wild child. That was all before Mistress Khitan finally ripped the damned anklet away and forced her into shoes and shut her mouth. _Good riddance_, they thought.

Aasha, on the other hand, was only slightly dismayed at first at the attitude displayed against her. She was somewhat used to alienation due to her gypsy blood, but her dismay grew to anxious desperation when she thought of herself all alone. Sometimes she forgot her new name, and sat there like a dumb person when servants called out for her. But overall, Khitan was surprised to see how determined the girl was to forget and force herself to accept the new. She didn't complain when the Mistress berated her for unwomanly behavior, only pouted. For her humility, Khitan allowed her to keep her bead necklace, an ugly thing that was nonetheless her only reminder of herself.

The young gypsy couldn't contain her gasps and sighs of appreciation as she was lead around the compound for the first time, marveling at the smooth stone floors and the manicured plants. In the day, the windows were flung wide to the garden, the curtains billowing in the breeze, inviting in the fresh scent of jasmine. The furnishings were humble to the others, and they sometimes complained about their simplicity before Khitan silenced them. Nonetheless, the girl couldn't help but wonder at the designs carved into the wood- how unnecessary but beautiful they were. In her home, basic stools and tables were scattered wherever they were needed, and her whole family of seven shared two _charpoi_ hammocks.

The apprentice's robes closely resembled a white tunic with a hood drawn over, not at all like the _shalwar kameez_ Aasha was used to. Apprentice girls wore one set of outfit, and boys wore something similar. Then when the children reached the age of fourteen, they were formally taught gender-specific subjects. Girls went on to learn the art of seduction, how to maneuver through a conversation to extract key bits of intelligence. The courtesans dressed like respectable, wealthy young women, while the spies dressed in assassins' attire in accordance to their rank. There was no regulation to keep heads covered within the fortress. This was one norm that Aasha was particularly surprised with; _were they indecent women, then?_ Respectable women were supposed to keep their heads covered.

"Not at all," Khitan snapped when she asked, "identity became an issue in the past, so the regulation is lax here. But go on a mission, however, and you'll find that wearing a cover attracts less unnecessary attention."

Men went on to learn the art of the sword and blade, and moved through many ranks in correspondence to their skill with weaponry: Novice, initiate, apprentice… perhaps even master. They learned to scale walls with ease, to disappear and to kill without arousing attention. Women had only two trades: courtesan or spy, and all the same ranking system. These women were given the most basic education on weapons handling so they might defend themselves, but their priority when engaged in combat was always to flee if possible.

Aasha took this all this in eagerly, and wondered what would become of her. The courtesans strolling the gardens seemed decent enough, dangerous intent gleaming behind their soft breaths and calculated smiles. But she only had to remember that they were courtesans- that they spread their legs to achieve their goals, and she would shiver with horror.

She wouldn't want to be a courtesan, not after what she'd seen happen to Radha. She'd excel in her studies so they'd think she was smart, so they wouldn't make her a courtesan.

She was determined.

She was no longer Rani, weak and helpless. No, she pushed her former self away into the back of her consciousness. She would become Aasha, strong and independent and useful to her savior.

Like clockwork, she rose before the sun and visited the women servants' baths to bathe while the sky was still green and blue. She began with mathematics in the morning with the instructor, alone. He didn't bother to become familiar with her, and after three weeks had passed he still didn't remember her name. After mathematics, Aasha learned literature with the rest of the apprentices, her grasp of the language having been deemed stable enough to absorb the information. Then the girls all broke for lunch, where they would eat sitting on sheets spread on the floor, gossiping and laughing about each other. When Aasha drew near, they would fall into a stony silence until she left the vicinity.

The other girls whispered that Aasha was some kind of witch, what with the way she poked at scorpions and petted the dirty animals from the stables. They wrinkled their noses at her and laughed at her uncouth behavior. They didn't act out against her, of course- the witch would curse them.

Aasha was not allowed to think of home again, not allowed to tell anyone her story in case she should stand out too much. She mourned her sister, but thought of her as a pretty flower in her heart and was content in the knowledge that though she'd suffered a severe injustice, Radha lived a happy life and died smiling. In the desert, the dom regarded death with an inevitability that could only come from harsh lives in the sands. Shifting sands which aged people too soon, took children from their families and livestock from farms. Mourning in the desert was a silent and respectful affair, not at all the extravagantly melodramatic event the city made of its dead. Her parents and brothers had probably mourned for their death. Where were they now? Father was probably at market by this time of year, renting out their camels and selling their cousin's harvest of mangoes and oranges. Which city was he in? Some years their family went as far as Persia.

She eyed the horses being led in and out of the compound, grazing on hay. How easy it would be to clamber into one of their saddles and gallop away? But that would be stupid, when she owed her honour and life to Al Mualim. He'd agreed to spare her, and in turn she would devote her life to his work.

Though her Arabic had reached a semi-working proficiency, the girl was still reluctant to speak for fear she'd embarrass herself. After Aasha ate alone under the banyan tree in the court, she'd hurry off to a lesson on general knowledge such as geography, basic sciences, history, astrology, et cetera. Most instructors were men, and they were impatient with their work. Sometimes they refused to answer questions for fear it'd cut into their time with their own male students.

"What use will you have for sciences anyway?" One instructor huffed, "just know that sun rises on that end and falls on the other."

Most of the accomplices agreed- sciences bored them anyway. The most important class of them all came last- theory, in which Aasha learned the ways of the assassin, and her role in its agenda. She learned the creed and agreed that women were best used as courtesans and spies. After all, their beauty and tendency to be underestimated were their greatest weapons.

If she'd been younger, perhaps she could have made many friends. In the desert, family was all- nomads didn't live close enough to each other for children to have many friends, after all, but having four siblings was often company enough. Aasha didn't know how to make friends with someone who was not her immediate family, whereby the social structures were already set and easy to fall into.

And then one day Aasha met Nadia, the daughter of a respected landowner from Damascus. While the others outwardly shunned her, Nadia studied her contemplatively as if she were some sort of exotic bird. Neither of them reached out to one another, both of them being deathly afraid of what could happen if they did. Nadia rose for breakfast like the other girls and tidied her hair before donning her apprentice's robes. She gazed out the window during mathematics lessons, her eyes trained on the men sparring in the ring. She watched them fight, and the place between her legs grew warm. Embarrassed, she'd tear her eyes away and once again try to pay attention in class.

Eventually the dom girl from the desert was introduced to the class, and Aasha stood there awkwardly, her normally defiant eyes downcast while the other girls made a face at the thought of having to sit next to her.

The instructor didn't seem to notice, and went on with his lesson.

The girl neared a cushion closest to her, only to have it snatched away. "My back hurts," said the other apprentice, Leyla, who used it as extra padding for her own cushion. Some giggles burst out in the back of the room.

Nadia waited for Aasha's reaction, noticing her clenching fists and the spastic twitching in her neck. Then the gypsy snapped in her wood smoke voice, "maybe it wouldn't hurt so much if you stopped jumping into haystacks with the boys." Her mouth wrapped firmly around each word, taking pains to punctuate them perfectly.

A shocked silence fell over the class. Then some girls muffled their own laughter. Leyla was known to be overly _playful_, but no one made a thing of it since everyone knew she was being raised as a courtesan anyway. The insult was funny.

"Bedu witch," Leyla hissed, and the instructor at last turned around and, exasperated, ordered Aasha to sit in the next available space.

That was how Aasha found her place by Nadia's side, and there she stayed for the rest of the day. They didn't even speak to each other, Nadia merely tolerating the other's company. This arrangement carried on for a few more days, and eventually the two began speaking. They helped each other gather their items, and Aasha started to ask the city girl for help with her work. They traded notes and Nadia pretended to be grateful even though she couldn't read the gypsy's sprawling handwriting. Eventually Nadia found a sort of companion in her. The other was fiercely loyal and had a lighthearted yet committed attitude that convinced her they would soon make good friends. Nadia's own circle of friends did not question her choice, allowing Aasha to sit with them for their midday meals but not speaking to her unless it was absolutely necessary. Within a month of this, Nadia was sitting alone with Aasha, the two laughing and giggling over mundane things.

Their friendship confused the others- that a girl like Nadia, who had such a good reputation, would associate with a dom of the sands. Nadia taught the gypsy the different types of flora around the compound, and helped her in her studies when the other was stuck. In return, Aasha charmed the girl with stories of the desert, and taught her how to whistle to the birds.

On some mornings, the two woke earlier than usual and went out into the gardens.

"Would you like to learn to climb a tree?" Aasha asked one time, gripping a low arm of a great tree.

Nadia gaped, "goodness, no! Why should I want to do that?"

The dom blinked, her warm brown eyes reassuring, "because it feels like freedom."

"Well, I find freedom in embroidery," Nadia huffed, putting her hands on her hips. "Don't you?"

"That's not the same," came the reply, "though your needlework is beautiful."

And their friendship continued on like that, easy and unstrained. Aasha still climbed trees in the mornings and rested there, waiting for the day to begin, and Nadia sat under the tree working on her sewing. She would make intricate designs of fantasy flowers- a frivolous activity to Aasha, but she still loved looking at them.

* * *

Interaction between male and female members of the assassin order occurred on a daily basis, but generally the boys avoided the girls, and the girls stuck together like bees in a hive. Suddenly, when the transition happened that the female apprentices were assigned trades and the boys began their weapons training, something changed. Aasha was fourteen years old.

As she had hoped, Al Mualim had decided on the spy's trade for her, and her training now included tactic and some physical lessons. She would need to climb walls and be able to outrun guards, so sometimes her training put her in the direct paths of the boys, now novices. By a cruel but predictable twist of fate, Nadia was chosen to be a courtesan. Nonetheless, the two still shared quarters together and told each other of their days with enthusiasm. Their friendship, it seemed, had not suffered.

Slowly but surely, Aasha gathered accomplices, then friends. The girls – women, some were much older– she now attended class with were level headed and mostly calm. What menacing traits they once possessed as girls leeched out of them as they matured, and the reality sank in that they only had each other in the Order. Their lives depended on one another, and it made no sense to hate each other. The spies mostly cooperated, while the courtesans continued their gossiping ways. The drama was heightened now by the young women's waking sex drives, which pitted them against each other for the affections of certain novices.

Aasha was not immune to the charms of men, but she was more confused than seduced by the young men she encountered. Despite having excelled at lessons and becoming almost fluent in the common Arabic tongue, after two years in Masyaf she still had much to learn. In the desert, Dom women rarely ever met their prospective husbands before the wedding. Marriage was a thing of necessity. She was not familiar with this concept of courting, gift giving, flirting, seducing, and all the backstabbing that seemed to occur here on a daily basis. She was sick and tired of watching her friends conspire against one another.

They watched the young would-be-assassins spar with great interest, noting which ones came from wealthy families and which ones were handsome. Aasha blocked out their chatter and watched their blades deflecting the sunlight, gleaming sharp and deadly. One by one, the others talked about all the young men that came to train- Abbas, whose father ran away… or was it that he killed himself? _How disgraceful… And what about Murad now, who would look so handsome if only he didn't have such a big nose… And look at Malik! His father was a Master Assassin, did you know? Of course we all know, you can see it in the way he moves. And who's that? He's very pale, isn't he? Yes, that's Altair Ibn La'ahad. His mother was Franj, I hear. He looks so handsome, and he moves like a master already. If only he'd just look over here, maybe…! Oooohhhh! Oh stop swooning, Leyla! His eyes, his eyes. Look how beautiful they are, are they gold or orange? No, I think they're green. Are you stupid? Hahaha, look how angry Malik looks! Is he jealous? Of course not; no one wants to be like Altair. You know what they call him… _

Aasha tuned out the high-pitched chatter and focused on getting from one place to another. This routine fared well for her, and then one morning while she was making her way with the rest of her companions to a class, someone ran right into her. They had tried to make way for the group of young boys running late to their lesson, but still the idiot hit her and they both fell. He was running so late that he just muttered an apology, didn't even look her in the eye, and rushed off to join the rest of his friends. He was still a child, perhaps two years younger than her.

Aasha shrugged and forgot about him for two days until she met him again, this time in the early morning hours. She frowned; she never remembered any of the novices being fond of rising early, except perhaps Altair. But he almost always was up as a consequence or discipline for some foolish mistake he'd made, and never got in her way.

Rumor had it that some horrible prank was played on Altair a few days ago, leaving him injured. Apparently he even cried. The whispers even said that Al Mualim himself saw to his recovery, and even now he was there lying in the Grand Master's chambers, crying. Aasha shuddered at the thought, knowing far too well the other's position. Half Muslim and half Franj, the others said of him, a bastard child, a son of none.

But the boy looking up at her from under the tree was getting restless.

"What's your name?"

"Aasha. What's yours?"

"Are you _supposed_ to ask my name?"

"Am I_ not?_"

He fidgeted, not used to being spoken down to by a girl. "You're the gypsy, aren't you? They told me about you."

"What have they been saying?"

"That you should watch yourself."

"Oh," she wasn't exactly sure if that was meant to be a menacing or caring statement.

"I'm Kadar."

"Alright."

"My father is a Master assassin."

"…That's… interesting. I really must go."

"…Oh."

He looked dejected, but Aasha still had to bathe before the day began. She clambered down the tree she was nestled in and made her way to the women servants' baths. That day they had a particularly interesting lesson, and Aasha was distracted when she broke for lunch. A hard hand grabbed her shoulder from behind, and she jumped.

"Are you Aasha?"

"Yes. Are you Kadar?" _No,_ she thought as soon as the words left her lips. He was much older than Kadar, maybe even older than her.

"No, I'm Malik, his brother."

_Oh._ "Nice to meet you." She was still contemplating the day's lesson, and did not bother to look at him as he spoke. In fact, she even started to walk away before Malik's hand shot out to grab her arm.

"Look, I want you to stay away from him, okay? I will personally cut you up if anything bad happens to him because of you."

A few of the others stopped to watch the harsh exchange, intrigued. Aasha swallowed tensely, thoroughly confused. _Cut her up?_ What had she done? Surely he didn't think she was going to use some evil magic or something to curse his brother?

"I- I don't understand."

"No, of course you don't."

_He was belittling her!_ She knitted her brows, "you can't cut me up, you don't even have your own blade yet."

Malik flushed, "then I'll steal one!"

"You wouldn't," she bit back louder than was necessary. "And let me go!"

His brow twitched, "watch yourself, girl." He did release his grip, his hand falling uselessly to his side.

"Fine, then!"

"Fine."

And then he turned on his heel and pushed through the people who'd gathered to watch, slipping away. She regarded his retreating back with a sense of doom. _What just happened? _

Later, she scrutinized herself in a mirror by the bath, and noticed her widening hips. Her black hair was long and lush, shining from her healthy diet of yoghurt, fruits, breads and meats. She had a shape to her now, and her breasts were beginning to fill out. She touched them and winced, becoming very scared. There were the thinnest hairs she'd ever seen growing now down there, on what her mother once told her was her most prized possession. _What did all this mean?_ Tears gathered in her eyes. If only she had her mother to comfort her, to stroke her hair and tell her all would be alright. She was so afraid of herself that she had to tear her eyes away and wade back to the bath with the rest of the girls she now called her 'friends'. They welcomed her with open arms and charming smiles. She sank into the bath, her heart tumbling with relief at the sensation in a way only a desert girl's heart can react to water.

She didn't particularly like this bathhouse, always preferring the humble conventionalism of the servants' bath. The soaps here were flowery and never worked up a lather, and the towels were huge and fluffy and never soaked up any water. Completely useless, all of it. But her friends were here and they were laughing, and they didn't stop laughing when Aasha joined them. She couldn't help but smile and be drawn into their warmth.

No one said anything about what had transpired with Malik, but Aasha noticed that behind the smiles, some of them must be angry. She couldn't imagine why, since she didn't even do anything to directly upset them.

It was Nadia that had to finally explain it all to her, making her throw her hands up in frustration. She hadn't even wanted this, and now it was her fault? It was his idiot brother Kadar who tripped over her!

It was also Nadia who had to calm her frantic screams when Aasha woke several weeks later to a lone streak of blood trailing down her thigh.

* * *

_End of Chapter 2._

* * *

So I wanted to give Aasha a childhood, and at the same time highlight her transition from an insouciant child into a conscious young woman. This period of change is confusing and difficult for most girls, and I don't buy that "I am myself I will not conform" bullshit some teenagers (including myself at one point) spew. The truth is that we are hard-wired to want to be liked and accepted, and the change is so gradual that we don't feel as if we are making conscious choices.

**_Bedu is a generic term meaning `desert dweller`. However, it is most associated with the Bedouin peoples, or the nomadic gypsies of the Arabian deserts. _**_  
_

**Please leave a review if you like the fic**, they really do make my day. Someone PMed me about anonymous reviews, so I enabled it. Criticism is always welcome. Thank you!


	3. Image 94: Ra'id Al Dosari

Wow, thanks to all my reviewers! It's great to hear back from you guys, each review means a lot to me.

* * *

_It was not until the next morning when all was said and done that the reality, after two months, finally clambered in like a drunkard. Abdul didn't spare her a passing glance, just threw a basket at her and demanded that she go out to the farms to collect cotton. And Rani was faced with the freedom she could not have, the sun beating down on her. This sun could not be the same sun she grew up with in the desert, she thought, for this sun was cruel and mocking. She saw long stretches of blooming cotton plants; the roads leading up to the farm were sandy and not well travelled. She'd expected that perhaps Abdul had many wives, but it seemed now that it was not the case. Hungry but not defeated, she picked cotton until her back seized. At midday the bastard dragged his stool out onto the patio and sat there like a dead thing, smoking from his brass hookah and watching her work with glazed eyes._

_Rani rose to her full height and looked him dead in the eye, cursing him with all her might that he would drop dead. The only thing that kept her from running was her hunger, and knowledge that were she to leave now with no provisions, she'd be leaving her sister, and she herself would die of starvation within days. Abdul knew this, and he smiled sheepishly at her, a thin trickle of drool wetting his naked chest._

_Once while Abdul was smoking his hookah and dead to the world, Rani heard the sound of marching. The soldiers were loud, unlike anything she'd ever seen before. The sounds they were making as they approached were like a kitchen at mealtime, metal dishes clanging. These men had the whitest skin, skin like marble under the light of the moon, and wore metal chains on their arms. On their tunics were each sewn a single red cross. She was afraid, watching them walk by with a bright red banner which flapped languidly in the breeze. She was going to say something, but she stopped herself when one of the men turned to look at her with an expression of utter and complete disgust._

_They passed, a group of twenty-four men in total._

_Knowing that she'd have to find some way to escape on her own, Rani devised a plan. Radha would distract Abdul while she was given permission to collect cotton, then she'd run to Abdul's shack and take what she could, burying it the sand and hay where Abdul's horses were kept. One day it could be a few bowls, another day a brass plate, then another a fleece blanket. Finally they stowed away several small jars of samna butter and small pieces of cheese, dried meat, and dried fruits wrapped in cloth. Abdul never noticed these things disappearing. After two more weeks of this, Rani's posture was all but gone but her legs grew strong from the hard labor. She became extremely proficient at cotton picking, so much so that she was even able to save a few sacks and bury them along with the rest of their stash. Sometimes Abdul's friends came to visit, and together the men would sit in their stools smoking hashish or joke over his new wife. Sometimes they lapsed into an odd rakish language that Rani couldn't understand._

_Soon, she promised herself. Soon she would be gone from here. _

* * *

One could never overlook the importance of the spy. One well paid spy could outperform and outdo a hundred poorly paid soldiers.

There were five sorts of spies used in warfare by both Saracen and Crusader, and likewise in the Order. Native spies were people from the enemy's own racial group. Usually these spies were easy to find- Franj soldiers who for some reason or another pledged their souls to Allah, for example, found themselves working for Salah ad-Din and Al Mualim. More useful but also more expensive and difficult were internal spies, who were enemy officials working for the other side. Taking these spies was a leap of faith in itself. Double spies were enemy spies that, for some reason or another, decided to turn against their supposed 'home base'. Money usually played a big part. Doomed spies were given deliberately false information and told to somehow reveal it to the enemy. Last of all, surviving spies infiltrated enemy camps and returned alive to report the information.

The use of spies had always been an essential factor to consider when fighting a war, and over time the methodology developed from primitive to elaborate. Espionage now required a certain _finesse_, and years of practice and experience.

Speaking of _experience_…

Aasha's sexuality sidestepped her, so close but just out of reach of comprehension. After having had her first bleeding, the others both teased and congratulated her, most of them also having gone through the ordeal. She felt a little worldlier than the younger apprentices now, a little wiser. Suddenly she became keenly aware of the natural sway of her hips that she really couldn't correct without walking like a disabled person, her walk made awkward by her rapidly changing body. She stopped getting up before everyone else, and instead followed the rest of her friends to their bath house. She still thought fondly of the servants' bath's scrubbed floors and whitewashed walls, but she was all alone there. It was better to be with her friends in the mornings so she could be included in their conversations. They still knew she was dom, and she didn't want to be any more different than necessary.

And when the women had their time in the training ring, the men came to watch and make bets. Feeling their eyes on her, Aasha doubled her efforts; the dull training blades were dipped in color and made marks on her opponent's clothing as she backed her into a corner. Her opponent, her friend, called mercy and Aasha sheathed her blade. The men hooted for a bit, and then lost interested and drifted away one by one. One of them held her eye for a moment, and smiled. No, more like _smirked_. He looked strangely familiar, and before she could say anything he turned and chased after the rest of the novices without a second glance.

"You've changed," Nadia later observed, untangling the knots in Aasha's hair. The spy-in-training started,

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind," the other snapped, tidying her own hair, "forget I said anything."

But Aasha couldn't forget. She clung onto Nadia and held her until the other girl grumpily said that she was forgiven, and embraced her tightly in return.

Later that night, Aasha snuck out to look at herself again in the mirror, the same mirror in the bath house she'd used so many months ago. Already she saw someone different from before, and all the fear came tumbling back. Because the young woman she saw on the other side had a sculpted nose and arching eyebrows, long lashes and thick hair that fell to her waist. She had soft, round breasts and a narrow waist- she was beautiful, and Aasha had to physically touch to mirror to be sure that she wasn't actually looking at someone else by chance. _Well then, _she thought, _what am I supposed to do with this? _

Had she remained in the desert, by this time she would have married already. And under Al Mualim's orders Aasha wasn't sure if she would ever marry. Mistress Khitan was very aged but also childless. The gypsy touched her flat belly, where a child was meant to lie, a child who she could bring into the world. And she could do it, since she had begun to bleed.

It was where a child was meant to grow, but would she ever have one? What kind of woman then, was she? Who was she now? All of a sudden she had the horrible feeling that someone –or something- had died. Choked with thick emotion she couldn't make sense of, Aasha stumbled out of the bathhouse, almost naked. It was too dark, she reasoned, for anyone to see her. While tugging on her clothes, she ran as fast as her feet could take her back to her sleeping quarters, where she once again yearned to fall into the arms of her friends and block her pain with gossip and laughter.

In the middle of the night, Aasha woke with two revelations:

Firstly, that the last time she'd had that odd mix of emotion was when Radha died in her arms.

Secondly, that the name of the novice who smiled at her was Altair Ibn La'Ahad.

* * *

While the assassins in Masyaf trained, the Holy War raged on throughout the land. As spies, their jobs became more crucial than the young women could realize. Aasha buried herself in her work, and her knowledge base grew in accordance with her physical capabilities. Perhaps it was her desert upbringing on lean meats and daily labor, but she scaled walls with as much ease as she did trees, while the others complained of blistered palms. When she fought, she did so without hesitation, and though her technique was haphazard, there was a confidence in her that made her shine like a light.

As such, the male assassins, some now more than novices already, started to take note. And it wasn't just her- it seemed that overnight their male counterparts noticed they all had breasts and pretty lips. They gloated to them about how they'd climbed a great mountain with Al Mualim, how on his order they'd jumped with arms spread wide like huge birds. And now, they said, they were assassins. And they were worldly and knowledgeable.

"Of course," Aasha and the others would say in response, "how impressive." None of the spies ever let slip that they too made the Leap of Faith under Al Mualim's gaze. They were there on the same day as the men, hooded in assassin's cloaks with their breasts bound, and they'd jumped off the same planks and into the same bales of hay. They were the first women who were given the chance, Al Mualim primarily pushed by a morbid curiosity as to what would happen. He was pleased with the results, but was still reluctant to let courtesans take the leap. The spies were supposed to keep the outing a secret, but Aasha couldn't keep such a secret from her best friend. Guiltily, she told the courtesan, who listened raptly. Luckily, Nadia didn't mind- she didn't want to throw herself down a cliff if she didn't have to, after all.

At fifteen, they were allowed to leave the protection of the fortress to complete menial tasks out in the district of Masyaf, where they could, according to Al Mualim, pick up essential life skills. In the past, they'd sent young men and women into the world straight from the fortress, and they'd died because they didn't know how to barter for food, couldn't differentiate a bad situation from a salvageable one, and didn't know how to trust. The male novices were sent out into the sprawling cities and monotonous countrysides of Syria to do their duties. For the spy it was much the same story: perhaps it was to pickpocket something, to eavesdrop, or to otherwise get information by any means necessary. The courtesans accomplished the same goals, but with their bodies as the primary tool. Sometimes they would stay for days with the target, leeching information from him. For some targets, this was the only possible method. The priority was always to slip out before the targets got what they wanted, but once in a while a courtesan would return clammy with sweat and disgust. They disappeared into the bath house for hours at a time.

Al Mualim wanted to test his theory that both men and women of the assassin's order could work together, and encouraged the novice assassins to take a spy or courtesan on their journeys. They were essentially doing the same thing anyways; as novices, the male assassins could not fight or even assassinate, only gather intelligence. Supposedly it would open up new doors, and as the Grand Master knew all too well the tumultuous male mind, he thought a calm female presence might serve as a leavening force. But relationships, he stressed, were to be kept strictly professional, and fraternization was prohibited.

_Right. _

"Meet me at the stables outside of the fortress. We ride to Damascus this afternoon, will explain on way."

She read the hastily scrawled note and laughed. "Kadar, you are not even old enough."

The novice blushed darkly and cringed, "it's not from me."

"…Oh."

She rolled her eyes, but still could not deny her excitement. She'd never been to Damascus before. In fact, she could count the times she'd been inside a city on one hand. She thanked Kadar and folded the paper away, briefly noting that Malik's handwriting was absolutely atrocious. She relayed her mission to Mistress Khitan, who regarded her warily before allowing her leave. After all these years, she was still afraid that the girl might take off for the desert.

Nadia helped her bind her breasts, giving her redundant advice like "try to speak little" and "don't get in his way", making a point of not giving her the sort of advice she actually needed. So Aasha brushed her off with a dismissive tone, reminding her that Malik was an idiot and likely would need all the help he could get. Her heart tumbled in her chest as she pleated her hair and raised her hood, suddenly becoming the image likeness of a young boy. She left the fortress and made a beeline for the stables, thinking of what she should say to Malik to upset him and make him embarrassed. They hadn't spoken much, but she knew more or less that he favored her. He always seemed to be near when her classes dismissed, and bothered her constantly for bullying Kadar even though she hardly even saw the boy.

She rounded the corner into the stables and was ready to tease him on his decidedly unromantic note when she halted on the spot, her mouth opening but the words dying on her tongue.

The horse before her was a beautiful white stallion, but it wasn't the horse that surprised her. Rather, it was the person nestled in its saddle.

"You're late," said Altair Ibn La'ahad, with the most ridiculously stern expression on his face. He pulled the reins back confidently, "come on."

…So she forced herself to close her mouth and looked to pick a horse. The stables smelled musty with rotting fodder and animal waste. She'd been given riding lessons before, but was still wary of the beasts after seeing what one strong kick from their iron-clod hooves could do. She came across a chestnut stallion and was about to pull herself into its saddle when Altair interjected, "he's very skittish."

She didn't know he was so _talkative._ "Right," she put her hands on her hips and asked sarcastically, "which horse, oh great Altair, should I pick for my journey?"

"That one," he pointed.

She glared at him, incredulous. "No, I like this horse. I call him Maymun." She settled herself in his worn saddle and petted his thick mane, the horse making deep, appreciative noises. "I ride him for practice, he's not skittish with me."

Altair frowned, "right then, as long as you don't get in my way." With a practiced movement, he pulled on the reins of his stallion and trotted out of the stable. Aasha watched him go for a moment before gently prodding Maymun with her heels, following him. She could already tell he was going to be a problem. If she'd known it was Altair who'd requested her presence, she might have refused. The man was a recluse if anything, amazingly skilled but not very sociable. His cool, detached manner made him the envy of many novices, and even some of the initiates. The trip to Damascus in itself could take a day, Aasha noted with disappointment. It was going to be a very long day indeed. They'd probably have to stop to rest for the night somewhere on the way, too.

They were halfway across the district of Masyaf when Aasha brought up the mission.

"Right," said the novice assassin, as if he'd forgotten that she was there at all. "We are to go to Damascus and gather information on Ra'id Al-Dosari, who owns a jewelry stall in its market district. That is all I know, and I expect the Rafiq there will tell us more." He sounded very confident, not at all like the stuttering and overexcited novices Aasha usually saw.

"You've done many missions like this?"

"Yes. My instructors could no longer teach me anything new for my rank, so Al Mualim decided to send me on missions before everyone else. There was no point of having me waste around the fortress."

"You're very prideful," she noted neutrally, not knowing him enough to comment further.

Altair shrugged and rode on, "only because it is justified."

Aasha eyed his belt, which held a sheathed longsword. Novices didn't carry weapons. As if detecting her gaze on him, he shrugged again, "I am rank two now."

Rank two. While the other novices, some even older than he was, fought with their fists on missions and called for help, Altair was already slaying his enemies with blades. She had heard of his incredible skill, but couldn't see how this was possible.

"Well, seems like a simple enough mission for you. Why invite me along?" It was the single question she'd wanted to ask this whole time.

As it turned out, it was also the single question for which Altair denied her an honest answer. He danced around the subject with little grace, and they left it at that. Aasha considered, of course, that Altair might have some sort of odd weakness. The idea seemed so absurd for this man who was notorious for being the best at everything. The man was also known for being cold and uncaring, and as such Aasha decided she would not even consider the possibility that Altair just wanted to _not be alone._

* * *

They rode out of Masyaf and into the country, Aasha taking out her map and studying it intently every once in a while. Eventually she gave up- she didn't know where she was anymore, but Altair seemed perfectly in control, leading them here and there and around sudden bends in the road. They avoided the occasional watchtowers, guarded by Saracens and sometimes Templars. The desert was a wide stretch of monotonous regularity, its dunes of sand broken only by small settlements around the occasional oasis or well. With wonder, Aasha took in the distant herds of ibex and gazelle crawling like ants over the horizon's line. The sun was falling fast.

Finally they passed a landmark, a historic ruin, and Aasha discovered exactly where they were on the map. "There's a small village up ahead," she called out to Altair, "we should rest there."

"What's wrong with making camp out in the desert?" Altair questioned her, "I thought you were dom?" He was testing her reaction, to see if she would complain.

She blinked, a little jarred by his mention of her gypsy blood. "There's nothing wrong with it, but why do it when we have the alternative? Besides, we need water. We've passed the last oasis, and the village is closer."

The man didn't respond, just trotted onwards towards the village. Aasha sighed; it was probably as close to an admission of defeat as she was going to get with him.

An hour or so later, with their horses' heads hanging in exhaustion, the two reached the village of Yabrud Rif Dimashq, a lovely town shaded by apricot, poplar, and weeping willow trees. It wasn't much to look at in the nighttime, though, and Altair dismounted in front of its inn. Most villagers were already in their homes and asleep by this time, and no one heeded the two travellers on horseback. After motioning to Aasha to remain on her horse, Altair rapped urgently on the door. After a few moments, the innkeeper appeared, and the two exchanged _salaams_. The old man looked the two of them over before explaining to Altair that there were no more rooms. Altair reached into his coin pouch and produced a dubious amount of coins, but the innkeeper laughed and said again that he _really_ didn't have any more rooms. But there was, he said, another inn on the far side of town.

"Strange," the assassin muttered to himself, leading the horses and Aasha to the next inn. By this time the horses' footfalls had lost their rhythm. Aasha dismounted for Maymun's sake. Once they reached the other inn, they were told again that it was full to capacity. "But you can sleep in the courtyard hammocks if you would like," said the innkeeper, "I will charge you less, and at least you can have some place to rest your horses and fill your bellies."

"We would like that," Altair handed him a few coins from his pouch.

"I'll take your horses to the outhouse."

"No," Aasha cut in, thinking of how Maymun didn't respond too well to strangers. "We will do it-"

Altair pulled her back suddenly, "yes, please take the horses. We will come for them in the morning."

The innkeeper looked confused for a time, suddenly realizing that one of the travellers was a woman. This was a little interesting, and had he been younger he would've remarked on it. However, now he was old and had seen too much already to be surprised. He nodded his assent and showed them to a flap of heavy cloth separating the inn's main floor from its courtyard.

Parting the cloth, they noticed that there were still guests there at this late hour, talking and laughing by the open campfire. They were sitting on reed mats and some were smoking hookahs. Under the stench of hashish was the lovely smell of curried beans stewing in a pot on the edge of the fire. They were all men, dressed strangely in thick wookens woven in humble colors. They were probably from the mountains. Aasha pulled her hood far over her eyes as they passed them so as not to arouse any more suspicion. Altair was intent on getting to the hammocks by the courtyard's edge and ignoring the raucous, but a big man with a full beard noticed the newcomers and urged them to join their festivities.

Altair completely ignored them, and if anything began to walk faster. It was as if he was completely petrified of any human interaction aside from what was absolutely necessary. Frowning, Aasha broke away from the assassin and neared the group. It'd been too long since she'd felt the warmth of a campfire, and her stomach was rumbling for food.

She stepped into the campfire's ring as if she'd belonged there all her life.

"As-salaamu alaikum," one of the men greeted, to which Aasha replied, "alaikum as-salaam." The husk of her voice masked its highness, and the men could only assume she was a young boy. They passed her the basket of flatbreads from which she took two, and filled a wooden bowl with curried beans. She ate like that, listening to the men talk about the changing prices of certain products in Damascus. Remembering her mission, she nonchalantly raised the topic of jewelry. A hush fell over the men, and Aasha stopped chewing, terrified that she'd done something to give them away.

But no, one man who'd spoken very little this whole time cleared his throat, "jewelry will be harder to come by in Damascus, at least until another merchant comes along to replace my stall."

Another man nodded his condolences, "but you would give it up for the Faith. We support you, Ra'id my friend."

Aasha's heart jumped to her throat. "You are Ra'id?"

"That is I," Ra'id sighed sadly, "Ra'id Al-Dosari, the fool that threw away his riches to do what? Crawl in the mud? You must have heard of me, and for that I am sorry." Then Ra'id received even more sympathy from the others, who patted him on the back and engaged him in stories of their own.

This was unexpected. Pretending to stretch her neck, she looked to where Altair was by the hammocks. He was lying as if sleeping but tension was in his very line, and he regarded her cautiously. Obviously he'd heard, despite the distance. In the dark his eyes almost seemed to glow golden, like that of a hunting bird.

She took some pieces of flatbread and a large bowl of the beans, extricating herself from the odd group to deliver food to her companion. She handed him the food, which he received wordlessly.

She couldn't help but smile, "I don't mean to gloat, but…"

"Go back there and find out what you can," Altair interjected, trying to restrain himself but not being able. He tore into the flatbread, not looking at her.

Somehow she'd expected a reprimand, or even some advice. "Is that all?" But Altair kept scooping the curried beans onto the flatbread and practically inhaling it. Before her very eyes, the young man devoured the whole bowl and shoved it back at her, "bring more."

She scoffed with indignation, "why don't you come with me, then? You can eat all you like and at least be useful."

The assassin was briefly silent, "I don't think I'd be very useful," he deadpanned, "I always say the wrong things." Then he looked away and fiddled with his hidden blade. It became sadly, devastatingly clear to Aasha then why Altair needed the blades. She swallowed thickly, "fine."

The men regarded her with a little more apprehension as she neared the fire again. One of them motioned to where she came from, "who is he, the man you were talking to?"

"My cousin," she answered quickly, trying to sound as natural as possible. "He's taken ill as of late."

"Oh," he seemed satisfied, "are you on your way to see Salah ad-Din?"

She hated these situations, wherein she had no clue was she was being asked, but her answer would determine everything. Furiously, she racked her mind for all mentions of the name, and _oh!_ Of course, Salah ad-din was the Sultan, and it was public knowledge that he was amassing an army to fight back against the Franj infidels.

"Yes," she decided to reply, thinking that most likely these men were on their way to join his army.

"You're a little thin, aren't you?" Another observed, noting her thin waist. No doubt the thought hung in his mind that she was not what she appeared. An unfavorable atmosphere fell over the camp, and the men regarded Aasha with uncertainty.

Suddenly a hand was at her shoulder, and Altair stepped between her and the group of men, "of course he's too thin, my cousin is too young to join the Sultan's army. He is merely accompanying me, my friends. Why, if they let boys like him fight in the war, it wouldn't be much of a _jihad_ after all!"

All tension broke then, and the men laughed heartily, "of course! I knew it! Allah bless you my friend, we drink to your health!"

Thoroughly surprised at Altair's well thought out rebuttal, much less that the man actually made a_ joke_, Aasha didn't know what to say. She just sat down on the mats and shut her mouth. Altair had pulled down his hood, revealing his light brown hair flared hints of crimson in front of the fire. He accepted the bowls of food the others passed to him, and made a show of trying to get his "_shamefully thin cousin_" to eat more. He was obviously trying to embarrass her, the edges of his lips quirking as she dumped the beans into the fire when no one was paying attention.

He acted naturally enough, though Aasha could tell that he was straining himself to laugh and smile and respond appropriately. Sometimes he didn't even know what to do or say, and would sit there mute until Aasha made a joke. When the men called on him to praise Salah ad-Din, he only did so halfheartedly, feigning sickness. He looked more and more impatient, and she knew he must be thinking about how useless all of this was- he just wanted the information, all of this conversation and laughing and joking was unnecessary. He looked to Aasha, and an agreement was passed between them.

Altair made a point of struggling to stand up, "can I trust you, my friends, to be kind to my cousin? The day has been long and I am very tired."

"Of course," the men replied eagerly, no doubt charmed by this youthful young man on his way to fight for Allah, "he will be our brother, my friend."

Then Aasha was alone again with this odd group of men, and she asked them in a humbled tone if they were all on their way to join the Sultan's army.

"Yes," they said, "we are indeed on our way to meet Salah ad-Din. And it's not just us, it's dozens of other men from all over the land. We are sleeping here for the night because the inns are full."

"They are indeed," she nodded, "is this not strange?"

One of them slapped his knee and laughed in mirth, "it is because they are filled with soldiers! Or would-be-soldiers, I should say. These men have gathered from all over the Holy Land to join Salah ad-Din in his jihad, some of them hail all the way from outside of his kingdom! To be found dead in his army is a great honour above all others."

Aasha was bewildered that the Holy War had such an influence on the land, even amongst civilians. In the barricaded safety of the Masyaf fortress, all of this was hidden from her.

"I see. So you have left your homes and your jobs to fight as soldiers?"

"Yes, Salah ab-Din's army is on the march, and we mean to catch up to them. They are always ready to take in volunteers."

"And you came across each other, a Damascus merchant and a group of Kurdish mountain men?" Her question raised snickers around the group, the smell of hashish thick in the air.

"Oh," Ra'if, chuckled, "you can say it like that, but really I didn't want to travel alone. I don't see any danger in telling you, my friend. See, I am not going to be a soldier, no. A man like me wouldn't last an hour on the battlefield."

Aasha leaned forward, adjusting her hood- this was it. "Yes? You are to be an advisor, then?"

"Something like that," the former merchant said conspiratorially, "let's just say… I have ties with some very important people in Egypt, and Salah ad-Din would… benefit from my presence."

"Oh."

The Kurdish men hollered with laughter, "look how shocked he is! Don't worry, boy, no need to grovel and bow. You are our brother now."

Ra'if silenced them to take Aasha's hand between his, squeezing it tightly. The touch sent a pulse of cold down her spine. "My child," the jeweler said, "my birth may have determined my fate, but please do not envy me. There is not a single day in which I do not rue that I was born son of Sefu Rahotep." His eyes glazed over, "I didn't want the responsibility. I rejected my duty and lived my own life, I was happy as a simple merchant. I had a wife, she was beautiful. I left her because I could no longer live with knowing who I was and leaving it to waste."

Something changed in his demeanor, and with a start Aasha realized it was that he saw the remnants of _henna_ on the underside of her palm. Many moons ago, she had her hands tattooed in celebration of her fifteenth birthday. One could just barely still make it out in the dim light by the fire. He knew now, that she was not the boy she claimed to be.

The Kurdish men laughed amongst each other and didn't notice the way Ra'if touched her face, unnaturally smooth for a man. They didn't see how he drew the rim of her hood up just slightly and saw in its shadows the starts of several long pleats of hair. He nodded in understanding, his expression impenetrable, and turned away. "I think you should see to your cousin, _boy._"

Wordlessly, gracelessly, she almost fell over herself trying to get away. Before the men noticed she was even gone, Ra'if announced that the night was late, and then the Kurds groaned about putting away their hookahs.

When she reached Altair, the bastard was sleeping and she was near tears. Looking back to see that they men were retiring to their own hammocks and that they wouldn't be heard, she took a deep breath. "Altair," she nudged him in his side, but he remained asleep. _This is impossible,_ she thought, _he must be playing a trick._ She would've played along if she wasn't so afraid. So instead she slapped Altair on the face, and he woke soon enough.

"Allah!" He swore and clutched at his cheek, "what is wrong with you?"

"They know who I am," she whispered hoarsely, wringing her hands, "what do we do?"

He stared at her, slack jawed. She knew he was disappointed, he was probably angry and she might have ruined everything. But instead he just asked, "how much do they know?"

"That I am a not a boy. Ra'if knows."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, do we leave? The Kurds don't know, but you've seen their suspicion. The horses are roped at the outhouse." Her voice was getting higher and higher in her hysteria.

Calmly, Altair surveyed the men tucking into their hammocks and Ra'if just standing there still, looking at his hands and deep in thought. "Yes, I think we should go-"

She made to leave, but the novice's hand shot out and caught hers, "go to sleep, I mean. You shouldn't have woken me."

"But-"

"Now look," Altair motioned behind her, and Aasha turned to see one of the sleepy fat Kurds waddling into the hammock meant for her. "So now you'll have to sleep next to me unless you'd rather sleep on the floor." His eyes caught hers, teasing while the rest of his face remained absolutely resolute, "so what'll it be, _cousin?_"

His grip on her hand was firm, and he was so close she could smell the curry on his breath. By the light of the moon she saw his sleep tousled hair and dazed eyes, boring into hers. Aasha had never seen this side of Altair, rumored to be completely dispassionate about everything. Taking slow breaths, she considered her options: she could sleep by the campfire; she could go to the outhouse and sleep with the animals. Both options sounded utterly ridiculous, especially with company, and the two of them knew it. She was too tired to argue further. Altair thought it was safe to stay… So be it, then. She would trust him this once.

She climbed in, the hammock swaying with their added weight. Altair was so warm and smelled very pleasant, like fresh linen, and she didn't know what to think of it. He let go of her once she was securely in the hammock, and he shifted on his side to make room for her. It was by no means a comfortable accommodation, but the mission called for it. She felt bad for him, really, since now he didn't know where to put his hands so as to not offend her. She let him feel awkward, and eventually he settled on lying on his right hand and tucking his left behind her back.

"What did you find out?" he drew back her hood and whispered right into her ear in case the Kurd sleeping a few feet away should hear. She was already drained, and was so startled by his hot breath on her that she nearly fell out of the hammock. He caught her waist before she did and braced her against him with his left arm. So much for it _staying_ behind her back.

Fortunately, even while half-asleep Aasha had a good memory, and remembered the name Ra'id mentioned. "He says he's on his way to join Salah ad-Din's army, but not as a soldier. He's probably more important than we know he is, since the Kurds double as his body guards. I assume he's even paying them. His father is Sefu Rahotep." The name meant nothing to her.

"I don't know who that is," Altair offered helpfully, "maybe the Rafiq in Damascus will know."

"Mmm." He was so warm, and Aasha couldn't help but drift off to sleep. The last thing she thought of before she surrendered to exhaustion was how shocked Nadia was going to be when she hears of this.

* * *

_End of Chapter 3._

* * *

Because no mission ever goes as planned, and I wanted to introduce the Holy War element. Right now Aasha is still young enough to pose as a boy, but later on this will not be possible. I wanted to play with the dynamics of this at least once.

Also with Altair, most fics portray him as totally serious with no sense of humor. I understand that, but I like to think that he was different when he was younger. Altair's sense of humor in this chapter alludes to his immaturity at this time in his life; I refuse to think he was _always_ an arrogant and stuck-up jackass. I had to walk a thin line with balancing his youthful spontaneity at this time with his personality that we know from the game.

**Salaams** are greetings exchanged between Saracens. They roughly mean "blessings upon you", and "blessings upon you as well". This greeting is still used in many Muslim countries in present day.

**Salah ad-Din is Saladin**, for those who are more used to the latter.

I originally planned for Aasha to go with Malik, but then suddenly a wild Altair appeared! But do not worry, Malik, every dog has its day.

**Please leave feedback, comments, critique, or even questions if you have them. Thank you! C:**


	4. Image 152: Damascus

_"You best pray to Allah that your sister bears me a son, child." Abdul sneered one morning, and Rani was stunned that he spoke to her directly. She was so surprised that she could not stop from retorting hatefully, "if you've had four wives before and no son, then perhaps the problem is with you!"_

_Abdul's face flushed dark with shame, and he looked about to hit her. He didn't. The day he departed for the city on errands, looking skittish. He seemed so nervous that he locked the doors but not the windows, and that was how the two girls slipped away. After Radha reveled at the sunlight and fresh air, she and Rani hurriedly dug out their stashed possessions, exhilaration in their every line, and slung the heavy sacks onto two of Abdul's horses. In their haste they were too rough with the animals, and their inexperience made them uneasy. One of the horses, a great stallion, whinnied and reared his great hooves, and when they came down they knocked Radha to the ground._

_"I'm alright," she said, trying to regain her breath. They struggled onto the horses and tried to ride them like camels. Thankfully, the beasts obeyed, and they broke into a trot to the opposite direction of the city. Once they were far from Abdul's cursed farm and surrounded by the country, they hollered and whooped in joy, almost in disbelief that such good luck came upon them. Just for those few moments of freedom, the last few weeks felt justified. A few hours later they reached a small market, where they sold some of their stash and cotton. The men looked warily at them, two bare-headed women on horses, but they were familiar with dom and made the deal nonetheless. Rani looked at the coins they put in her hand –they didn't look like the coins her father dealt with- and didn't know how to count. She had no way of understanding if they'd just been cheated or not, but she pocketed the coins and nodded her thanks. The traveling merchants told them they were far from the desert, but suggested a small city a few miles from here that might bring them home._

_They came across an abandoned camp sometime near dusk, and decided to rest for the night. They each shared some dried fruit from their stash, but Radha's cough was getting worse. She complained of trouble breathing, and when Rani untied the strings to her shalwar kameez she saw the blackening hoof print there on her chest. Soon after, Radha was bleeding from her mouth and afraid, clinging onto Rani with tears stinging her eyes. The night was falling dark and oppressive around them, swallowing Rani's choked lullabies. Radha died long just as the sun vanished beyond the horizon, and Rani felt her world go with it._

_The only other time Rani had met with the concept of death was when Ganurabad, her family's prize camel, passed the year prior. This was completely different._

_She felt as if she should hate her captors for having taken them, hate Abdul for having enslaved them, hate the horse for having dealt the killing blow, and hate herself for not having done more. But she was so tired, and after she laid her sister to sleep, she too crumpled against the limp body, sobbing, drawing the listless arm around herself and pretending all was well and she was back at their small home in the desert. With horror, she realized she could no longer remember what home looked like. She turned and buried her face in her sister's breast and tried to breathe in what was there of her scent beyond the stench of blood and death._

_By the next morning the horses were gone, probably wandered off somewhere. She woke in her sister's arms and noticed they were strangely stiff. She suppressed a scream when the events of the past night came back to her, and frantically tried to pry the rigid limbs from her body. She didn't know what to do. Looking down at Radha, the girl she'd laughed with, loved, and once felt such envy towards, Rani felt as if the whole world had shifted in some awkward way. Her heart tumbled nervously in her chest, trying desperately to hold a rhythm. She tried to arrange a resting spot as best as she could, tucking a few wildflowers into Radha's thick hair, kissing her on the cheek even though the action brought a surge of bile to her mouth. No more tears came, and again Rani felt disconnected from her body. She ripped her father's necklace from her neck and tucked it away- she could no longer bear the weight of it constricting her breath, despite it being light as a strip of silk._

_Her feet led her on, despite her mind insisting that she might as well be dead._

_She walked numbly onwards like that, stumbling sometimes, one foot in front of the other, her sandals worn and barely holding themselves together. But finally sometime in the afternoon she reached the outskirts of a city. There was some hustle and bustle now, citizens yelling at her to move out of the way as they lead their cattle to market. She felt as if she were already dead, her eyes listless and her skin a sickly pallor from dehydration._

_Suddenly, unexpectedly, a stranger offered her an orange. She didn't get a chance to see his face, but he pushed it into her hands and smiled so kindly that Rani couldn't help but feel a small fire being rekindled in her heart. Suddenly oddly aware of her surroundings, she stepped out of the way of the carts and tore into the orange, the juice dripping from her mouth as she devoured it, seeds and all._

_"Welcome to Masyaf," someone spat at her sarcastically, obviously unhappy with the sight of more beggars in the city. Nonetheless, Rani didn't hear and wouldn't have understood, and so she wandered off to explore, hungry and thirsty but still reluctant to beg. She used what few coins she had from the travelling merchants to buy a bit of food, but she suspected she was taken advantage of yet again. She wasn't familiar with the currency and couldn't count- all she knew that a few jugs and a large sack of cotton amounted to far too little food in the end. Despite her attempts, she did not meet with such kindness again, and eventually came to the gates of a grand fortress. She begged of them for food in her native tongue, but the guards were expressionless and did not respond. Then as they were distracted, she slipped in. Before she had chance to blink, she was roughly shoved against the wall and found herself surrounded by dangerous men. _

* * *

In the morning Altair filled some water casks at the well, and Aasha took some pieces of leftover flatbread. Then they went to the outhouse in the morning to retrieve their horses.

"What did you name your horse?" Aasha asked of Altair, rubbing Maymun's mane affectionately.

"Nothing," Altair replied bluntly, "I don't name horses."

They woke together when the first shots of red tore through the night sky, and had said nothing until then. Aasha slept surprisingly well nestled against Altair, who didn't even breathe a word about it. Their priority now was to leave before the to-be-soldiers sleeping in the town roused for the long march to Salah ad-Din. Before they spurred their horses, however, the last man they wanted to see right now came storming out the inn's back door, "wait!"

Altair froze, clutching his horse's reins tightly with his left hand and his right trailing to the sword hanging at his waist. Aasha was too afraid to say anything at first, but it seemed Ra'id was alone, carrying just a small box. He looked desperate, and so she dismounted her horse carefully. Drawing her confidence, she approached him. "I am sorry I deceived you."

"No, no, I understand." He looked quickly from side to side, "I know who you are."

She paused, "you do?"

Ra'id looked absolutely sure. "Yes, you are lovers eloping to get married, aren't you?"

She closed her eyes slowly. _This situation could not get any ridiculous._ She gave thanks to Merciful Allah that they were leaving. "How do you know?"

"He is too fair to be your cousin, and you have a desert accent. And even if you were his cousin, I saw that you were not a boy and your story lost its grounding." He shifted on his feet, looking impatient, "then the two of you slept together. You can only fool me so far, girl."

"What do you want from us?" Altair called out none too kindly, "we must be on our way."

Ra'id shoved the ornate box into Aasha's fumbling hands, "may this be helpful to you. I spent my life falling into my own traps, but at least I will have one genuinely good deed to be proud of." He nodded to Altair, took one last look at Aasha, and then slipped back into the inn.

Immediately, Aasha tucked the box into one of the sacks hanging off of Maymun's saddle and hoisted herself into it. The two of them rode on towards Damascus until they were far from the village. Then, as Maymun trotted on, Aasha untied the sack dangling at his saddle and retrieved the box. It seemed innocent enough. When she opened it and scooped out its contents, Altair had to stop his horse to stare at what she held in her hand.

Her eyes didn't even know where to rest; the whole thing was so encrusted with jewels. In the center of what she could only presume to be a headpiece was an intricately carved gold disk the size of her palm. It was settled with blood rubies and diamonds, lain with ground emerald, pearl, and amethyst. Wings of gold spread out, and on their backs were pins to keep the headpiece in place. From the bottoms of these wings were tiny pearls suspended on silver chains the thickness of hair, one longer chain attached to a nose ring studded with diamonds. Aasha felt like someone had just punched her in the stomach, for she'd never seen anything so grand, and lost her breath.

"Allah bless him," she said at last when she found her tongue, "I… what do I even_ do_ with this?" She looked to Altair, "surely I cannot keep it for myself."

"Put it away first before you lose it," the other said cautiously, "everything we own belongs to the Order, so you will have to turn this in to your Mistress."

It was so beautiful, and the thought of parting with it saddened her. Everything she owned belonged to the Order- even herself. She never questioned it as a child, but now...

She put it away reluctantly, as if it would fall into the sands and disappear as soon as it left her sight.

The towers of Damascus rose up from the dunes at midday. When she mentioned she'd never been in the city, Altair began a slow and rambling commentary. "Jerusalem is under control of the Templars, but Damascus still belongs to the Saracens. The Franj have tried to take it on several occasions, but they have not succeeded. Look, as the roads come into view you can see which path Salah ad-Din's soldiers took when they marched from the city. Judging from the freshness of the prints, they marched from here only a few days ago."

"Where are they going to go?" There must be thousands of prints laid against one another on this dirt path. She tried to imagine the marching soldiers clad in iron and steel, but couldn't even make sense of such numbers. What would it even look like?

"No one knows," Altair replied, "they are gathering up forces somewhere, where Salad ad-Din will set up a camp for his soldiers."

"I know that," Aasha said hastily, not wanting to seem like an ignorant child.

Altair didn't even question it, didn't pick up the way she'd said it. Instead he was quiet and then he asked her if she thought he'd succeed. "Salah ad-Din's army, do you think they will unify?"

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Muslims, Jews, and Christians fighting side by side… Do you honestly think it could work to his advantage?"

_Ah. _"I think you forget that these men were all the same. We are all the same inside, Altair. Rip out our hearts and you couldn't tell one from the other." But she knew why he was really asking. A child of a Muslim father and Christian mother, Altair ibn La'ahad felt the disharmony between opposing peoples more strongly than anyone else. "Under a strong leader, they will find their place among each other."

"A strong leader?" Altair scowled, such rage lacing his words that Aasha was temporarily stunned, "a leader who would demand one life for another, such a man is scum."

And then Altair ignored her, no matter what she said or what she did, he refused to speak to her until they were deep in the heart of Damascus.

* * *

The Dai at the Damascus Bureau sighed melodramatically as they strode in, launching into an explanation that their target was nowhere to be seen, how they had come too late.

"We have all we need," Altair interrupted him, "we met him on the way here, and gathered much information."

While Altair convinced the Dai they spoke the truth, Aasha took in her surroundings. The first thing that she noticed was the vast number of pots that lined the shelves and the floors. The bureau's living area was cluttered with scattered cushions woven in bright fabrics, and a chess table rested in the corner, collecting dust. The room was lit by flickering oil lamps, and somewhere the smell of strong Turkish coffee wafted out. Aasha imagined the bureau had many rooms wherein the Rafiq lived and assassins could go to rest and heal their wounds. After all, the building was two-tiered.

"Well, spy?" The Dai addressed her directly, "what is this important name that you learned?" He looked skeptical, barely even lifting his eyes from his work. The pot he was painting now was exceptionally ugly, Aasha thought. The designs were too symmetrical; predictable.

"That Ra'id Al-Dosari is son of Sefu Rahotep," she reported, her lips wrapping awkwardly around the foreign name.

But at last the Dai stopped his work, looking exasperated, "that is impossible, Sefu Rahotep had no son."

"Was he disowned, then?" Altair suggested, "he spoke like he was ashamed."

The bearded man considered this, "it is possible. Wait here," he flipped the curtain separating the bureau from his personal quarters and disappeared behind it. Half a minute later he emerged again, carrying a tray with three cups of strong coffee. Altair and Aasha each took one and leaned against the counters drinking it. The bureau was one of the only places in which assassins and members of the Order were safe- here they were all family. "Tell me, where was he going?"

The coffee was rich, not at all like the watered down versions Aasha drank at the fortress. "He said he was going to join Salah ad-Din, as an advisor of sorts."

"Mm. This is troublesome. If what you say is true, then the two of you have uncovered a plot beyond your means of comprehension."

"Tell us," Altair demanded, settling down his cup with a clang, "tell us what you know."

The Dai waved his hand dismissively, "that is not for you to know, novices. Go, then. There is nothing left for you to do. You have my permission to return to Masyaf."

And as they both climbed out of the Bureau, Altair hadn't wanted to discuss it. "I am sick of thinking about that man and his so called jihad," he said of Salah ad-Din, "you wouldn't understand."

So she didn't speak of it anymore, and tucked away all her questions for later. Instead they roped their horses and, rebelliously, spent the day lazing about Damascus, sitting on rooftops and watching the markets below. They bought rolls of bread and a pomegranate to share, hiding in the rooftop gardens and relishing in their youthful spontaneity and newfound companionship. They didn't talk about themselves, of course, so they gleaned no insight into each other's' pasts. But Altair was eager to dispute everything she said and their playful banter felt like the embrace of an old friend. Twice they spotted a civilian in need of help, and they discussed how they would intervene. But in the end they always resorted to watching helplessly, Altair knowing he needed two more ranks before he could draw his blade for purposes not directly necessary to the mission's success, and Aasha knowing it was not in her place. The two of them made a good pair, she thought, and wondered if she was Altair's first companion on such investigations.

It hadn't turned out so badly after all.

Altair's presence stirred up something odd in Aasha, his words made her laugh even if they weren't particularly funny. He listened attentively to her stories, even if she made mistakes. He wasn't very sociable, but still the gypsy felt him honest and very kind.

After their midday meal, they spurred on their horses and crossed the land as quickly as they could until they could go no further. They dismounted at a walking distance from Masyaf fortress, and lead their horses the rest of the way. They arrived in the night, and as they parted ways Altair lingered there, looking like he wanted to say something. Aasha waited for a while, biding time by brushing out Maymun's hide. But Altair didn't say anything, just vanished without another word spoken. The next day the two of them reported their findings to the assassin Nasir, who seemed more interested in how they attained the information as opposed to the intelligence itself. Altair, ever vigilant to improve his standing in the eyes of his superior, spoke highly of himself. Nonetheless, he did not deny Aasha's pivotal contribution to the mission. "Had it not been for her," he said, "we would not have come across our target at all."

"Cleopatra's nose," Nasir mused warmly, looking out of the fortress' window onto the gardens below, "our trade is made possible by luck. If Cleopatra's nose was half an inch off center, she might not have been so strikingly beautiful to have been noticed by Julius Caesar. And then none of the events following their liaison would have occurred." He looked to the two novices, "good work. Altair, the Grand Master has deemed you ready for the next stage in your training, go see the blademaster." Altair bowed and gracefully made his departure, the assassin's gaze drifting to the gypsy. "And you, Aasha, now that he is gone have you anything further to report?"

The girl was momentarily confused, "no, Master." _What else did he want to know? Did she do something wrong?_ And then she remembered the weight in her pouch. "Oh, there is this." She retrieved the embalmed box Ra'id had given her, and presented it to Nasir with both hands, head bowed. The assassin took the box and studied it briefly before Aasha heard the sound of it clicking open. The assassin was silent for a long time, and then there was the sound of another man's voice. She hadn't even heard his footsteps.

"Give it to me," the voice commanded, and all at once Aasha knew who this was. In the presence of Al Mualim, she dropped to her knees and prostrated herself.

The Grand Master studied the piece carefully, holding it up towards the sunlight streaming in from the window, and bit the sculpted nosepiece to test the metal's authenticity. With her eyes trained to the floor, she heard the sound of delicate pearl strings tinkling together.

"I will deliver this to your Mistress. You may go, my child. You did well."

She made a point to bow deeper than Altair did, and it was a few bites into her midday meal when she realized Al Mualim had not even asked how she came across the jeweled headpiece. Nadia kept asking her questions about the mission, how she'd fared with Altair, the city of Damascus itself, which used to be her home… But Aasha felt too sick to respond with more than a word to most of them.

* * *

Knowing that the Templar influence over the land was great, Aasha scraped every last bit of knowledge she could from her instructors until they begged her to stop bothering them. She was sent on many more missions that year, some she completed alone and some with a fellow spy. Al Mualim kept her so busy that she was rarely in the fortress for more than a few consecutive days, and word soon spread of her skill. Soon she could see Acre's winding streets in her mind's eye, and feel the grain of Jerusalem's brick walls hot under her palms. She could tell a Templar from his shadow, and had the courage to roam the lands guided by the stars in the sky. Whenever she could, she devoured knowledge and poetic texts. She even studied the manuscripts on tactical warfare written by Orient generals, translated into barely comprehensible Arabic.

Altair took her on two more investigations and then stopped when he was promoted to Assassin. Now that he was carrying out killings, he preferred being alone. She did not miss his absence; she went on her own investigations and sometimes tarried along with the other novices. She even went once with Abbas, who couldn't stop ranting about how he hated Altair, so she rejected all his requests from then on. Once Kadar came of age, he begged her to come along with him for his first mission. Knowing that nothing good could come of it, she suggested that he ask his brother instead. The poor boy cried that his brother _had no time_, so she told Kadar that Malik had _better make time for his little brother if he was a man_. Then suddenly the next day Malik was pushing an overly anxious Kadar onto a horse and the two of them began their long journey towards Jerusalem.

Five years came and went like that, and the young woman felt like finally she'd reached a place of steadiness. Being better informed and prepared, Aasha no longer felt completely out of control during her investigations. Armed with experience, she became more and more efficient at manipulating a scenario to turn the results to her favor.

She shared her knowledge of the kingdom with her fellow spies, who gifted her with their observations in return. It was amazing to see that these women, who used to gossip about her and tease her, were now able to see her as _one of them_ now that her accent diminished and she dressed like they did. They became her friends, but it was Nadia who personally sought her out whenever she was in the fortress to fill her in with the latest news. News that Altair ibn La'ahad had reached rank six, for example, and was climbing fast. News that Leyla had left for a mission and was late. News that the spies had so proved themselves that Al Mualim was considering teaching them offensive blade work. And of course, the assassins were not happy. Women, they thought, should not be trained to kill. They should not even carry a blade, though they could perhaps be taught to use one for defense purposes.

Aasha was not particularly skilled with blade work to begin with- she had no patience for technique and preferred to slash compulsively until her attacker relented. So while spy after spy, once in a while a courtesan, jumped in the ring to challenge the men, she watched disimpassioned from the sidelines. They always lost, anyway, and the men would boast and jeer at them. Defeated, the women each turned in their blades, borrowed for practice, to the weapons stores. The blademaster once asked Aasha if she'd like to have a go in the ring, and she refused, saying that her skill was not in her ability to draw blood- a lowly mosquito could do that. The blademaster guffawed and then laughed, and the next day it seemed as if the entire fortress knew of her snide comment.

"Skill, is it? Or just blind luck?"

She sighed, braiding her long black hair by the garden. After so many years of this, his game was getting old. "Go away, Malik."

Aasha was disappointed in a sense- she'd hoped that Malik's demeanor towards her would change with the years. But alas, no matter how she tried to reach out to him –even to be friends- he would revert back to his childish jabs. Each time it had hurt; she would open herself completely to him, but he would back away. Then she would close herself off, and he would step forward but only out of curiosity. Aasha had long come to the conclusion that they would never become friends, no matter what it seemed on the outside.

Three years ago, Malik was sent on his first assassination mission. He returned with wild eyes and bloodied robes, but also with good news. Everyone could see that he was flustered by the experience. Stupidly, Altair dared to give him advice, resulting in a fistfight. Abbas at first tried to separate the two, but then somehow got drawn into the fight. While Altair was distracted by Abbas' blows, the women dragged Malik to the infirmary. It was then that Aasha first saw his vulnerability, the way he was so confused and afraid for what he had done, and what it meant for him.

"I never wanted to inflict that sort of pain and suffering on anyone," he'd told her, clutching her hand even as his bloodied clothes were stripped from him.

"She needs to leave," the other assassins were saying, "she cannot see you bare."

Knowing that they would feel no sympathy for Malik's momentary weakness, she consented and let them blindfold her. This allowed her to stay in the room with Malik while he ranted and spilled his insecurities.

But that was three years ago, and this was now. Malik never mentioned that day in the infirmary again, and neither did she.

"Go away, Malik."

The man's chin was sprinkled with stubble, "I would love nothing more, but your mistress requests your presence."

She smiled, flicking her braid behind her back and rising to her feet, "why do you sound so bitter, brother? Does it anger you that I go freely from city to city with my head bare?" Of course she wasn't so tactless as to travel without a veil or cover of some kind, but the look on Malik's face made the lie worth it.

"I don't know how you do what you do," he growled lowly, dangerously, "but if I find that you are more courtesan than spy, I-"

Horrified that Malik would even insinuate such a thing, she exploded. "How dare you! My virtue is my father's gift to me, and I would not give it for something I could gain by tact. I am a virgin, I will have you know!"

The assassin blushed all the way to his ears, "I- I didn't mean that you… Just that I heard, I…."

She took one step forward and her mirrored it by stumbling one step back. "What did you hear?" Allah be with her- if Malik mentioned Altair, she was going to have his hide. After weeks of relentless teasing when she returned with the other man, successful in their mission, she took pains to ensure her actions did not spur on the rumors. Though the man was undeniably attractive, there was an uneasiness about him that Aasha just couldn't shake. And yet Altair had a natural way of going about his days, only speaking to her when necessary, never seeking her out in his free time. Over the years the novices were each elevated to assassin rank. And as they took on their assassination missions, it was no longer advisable to take a companion. With others taking note of his skill, Altair was kept so busy that he could rarely be found in Masyaf. Malik, on the other hand, always seemed to be near. She'd seen him and Altair fight on many occasions, angry words followed by furious blows. _All for what?_ Underneath his excuses, she saw his jealous heart: he despised Altair for being smart to the teacher. For being stronger than he was. For being arrogant with his raised rank.

"Out with it," she pressed him, "what did you hear?"

"That Leyla's come back to us."

_Oh._ Immediately the tension drained out of her to be replaced by concern: Leyla the courtesan, the girl who mocked her all those years ago, the girl who jumped in haystacks with the boys. Now a woman, she left for a mission a moon or so ago, and was said to have disappeared. Now that she'd returned, she was possibly wounded. "Where is she?"

"Which part of her?" he spat, "a novice brought back her body just now, but her head could be anywhere."

Horrified, she had to sit down again. Though the other woman had never been kind to her, Aasha would not wish such a death upon anyone. She was barely breathing, her mind racing with all the images of the young courtesan, scared and cornered and maybe being violated against her will. She couldn't help remembering the way Radha had fought against Abdul, she'd scratched him until his back was a bloodied mess. Aasha's voice came out thin and raspy, mumbling incoherent nonsense. Malik gathered her into his strong arms and held her tight against his chest, close enough for her to feel his heartbeat against her breast. Coming to her senses almost instantly, Aasha started to push him away, but then she noticed what he was doing. Guardedly, he'd slipped a sheathed blade between where her belt met her waist.

"Best watch yourself, gypsy girl," he murmured, touching their noses together briefly. "You'd better come back in one piece."

She was bewildered- never had she seen this sort of behavior from Malik, and it was setting off alarm bells in her head. "What does Al Mualim want of me?"

"I don't know, but he and your mistress fought all day. He won't send anyone else." He looked from side to side, and then made her promise that she'd let him go with her should the Grand Master allow her a companion. As Malik never invited her before on any of his missions, it was all she could do to say yes.

* * *

_End of Chapter 4._

* * *

For those of you who have been following along, you will notice that I've re-vamped the first chapter. After some consideration and contemplation of the critique I've gotten (thank you all!), I've decided that it was best to separate Aasha's backstory to make it absorb a little easier. Otherwise, it was just too much too fast. I think it is better this way. C:

As for history, I'm iffy on footnotes. I don't know if you guys would be interested in reading them, and so I've opted to explain as much as I can in the story itself. This way it builds on character, is somewhat educational, and you don't have to read footnotes after the chapter is over.

Let me know your thoughts on footnotes (if you'd like them) and for this chapter.  
Malik! I love the guy. Altair's great and all, but Malik is something else altogether. I love them both, and it's not often that a game (or any series) gets this from me haha.

**Review please!**


	5. Image 194: Imad El Amin

Thank you all so much for the reviews OwO

**tfclvi,** you are actually amazing. I am working on fixing up all the spelling mistakes and grammar errors you pointed out!

* * *

_They looked at her with cold scrutiny, all of them, clad in white with strange peaked hoods. Their blades glimmered menacingly under the sun, a few of them already resting a hand on the hilt of their swords._

_She swallowed thickly and cast her eyes to the floor- when they made business in the busy city markets each year, father always reminded her to lower her eyes when meeting his patrons. She kept her hands up, palms facing outwards, in surrender._

_A bearded man, wearing an intricately embroidered black robe so different from the rest, spoke to her in questioning tones. Rani couldn't understand his language- it sounded guttural to her, harsh, even though his speech was gentle. He reminded her of her father. She thought perhaps she could take a chance._

_"I am of the desert, I am dom," she spoke in her tongue, "please, I did not mean to. Please don't kill me, you don't understand."_

_But she knew that they saw the blood on her worn garments and wondered. But could they not see that she was just a child, barely a maiden?_

_One of the men in white muttered something, and Rani jumped when he mentioned 'dom'. _

_ "Yes," she gasped, "That is I." She had to keep trying, even though they could not understand._

_"Dom?" The bearded man repeated with something like incredulity in his deep rumbling voice._

_They were going to kill her. Maybe they were even going to rape her. She was sure of it. She should not have begged for entrance, begged for pity. When she was denied both, she should not have tried to steal from them. She should have stayed on the streets like the scum that she was. Rani closed her eyes and bowed her head, ashamed that she was being seen like this by the city dwellers, bare-headed and uncovered, completely unrespectable and utterly destitute._

_She waited for the sting of the blade that didn't come, instead was taken by the hand and led away by that man who so resembled her father. His beard was flecked with grey but he still stood strong and tall like a young man. The crowd parted for them, all surprise and nervous whispers. At least Rani had the decency to wait until he led her to a woman before she let her body kiss the ground. _

* * *

The reconnaissance mission Al Mualim planned for her would take her deep inside a fledgling Templar establishment. Built far too close to Masyaf for comfort, the Order wanted to determine the establishment's exact purpose. Apparently the Templars were wary of spies, and kept their mouths pinched. Al Mualim first sent a young assassin named Abbas, who was nearly caught when they found him dangling over the fortress' walls. Then a more experienced assassin was sent, but amidst the construction and chaos he couldn't accurately discern why exactly such a camp was created. He was discovered soon after, and had to flee. He did mention that there was a noticeable lack of soldiers, however. The fortress was highly guarded and he was not able to get inside, where the true knowledge lay. What they needed now was a sleeping spy, able to slip by undetected under their noses for a long period of time, and report their findings back to Masyaf.

The easiest way was to pose as a slave- the Templars had many Saracen slaves of both genders. Of course, the Order would not send a male assassin to do such a degrading job. Eventually the decision was made to send in a spy, since they were better able to pick up on certain subtleties. Even after all these years, Aasha still wondered if Al Mualim thought she'd stolen that headpiece during her first mission with Altair.

"You will not be alone," Khitan assured her when Aasha frowned out of distaste, "there is a man who works there, a Saracen, a fellow to our cause. If you endear yourself to him, I assure you that you will be safe. There he is known as Imad El-Amin."

Still, the mission made her deeply uncomfortable. _Who knows how the Templars treated their slaves? Could she escape if the situation turned sour?_ But she didn't ask these questions because her reputation so far as a spy had been built upon her ability to get the task done, regardless of how questionable the method. She'd learned Ra'id Al-Dosari's identity by befriending him, so surely this was just something similar.

"But how am I meant to acquire the intelligence if I do not speak their language?" Aasha asked her mistress, "I won't understand their words." That was not completely true- she did understand a tiny bit of Frankish, which she picked up on her runs in the city and through her study of their literature.

"Work well with our friend Imad, and you will find a way."

"May I bring a companion?" She was sure the answer would be to the negative, but it never hurt to ask, she owed Malik that.

Khitan shifted on her feet, looking right through her like a wall was there between them. "Who did you have in mind?"

"Malik Al-Sayf."

She frowned, then seemed to consider it, "no. The Grand Master has alternate plans for him."

Aasha knew the battle was lost and lowered her eyes. But the Mistress seemed to take pity on her, "…Though he cannot be a companion to you, I will appeal that Malik Al-Sayf deliver you to the fortress. It would be less suspicious that way."

_Well, at least it was something. _

"You will have to go alone, my child. Take care not to get into scuffles," she advised her, looking pointedly at her where her belt vanished under her robe, where Malik's blade rested hidden. "Stay close to Imad and listen to his instructions. After all, you will be defenseless."

Aasha bowed, pulled her hood over her head, and slipped away.

The Templar Fortress was located just north of Masyaf, indeed disturbingly close. Aasha and Malik travelled there with little issue, yielding their attentions to the rhythmic thud-thud of their horses' hooves upon the ground. They didn't speak to each other, Malik silently fuming at the degrading nature of the mission and Aasha horribly nervous herself. But she had acted out roles for investigations before, and performed well. Surely it would not be difficult to feign absolute ignorance.

Khitan clipped her hair in the morning, locks of her thick dark hair falling to the ground. Now her hair scarcely reached her shoulder blades, just as it had been when she was a child. She looked in the mirror and saw Rani, and was so disturbed by it that she had to turn away. Sometimes the guilt still tugged at her heartstrings, that she'd deserted her family and her heritage like tossing out old water. Now with the self-analytical mind of a woman, Aasha was loathe to contemplate that she'd done so out of greed. She had now things no desert nomad could even dream of- she had everything but a family, but the hole in her chest was easily forgotten when she stood among others of the Order, who also had to denounce their families.

Looking out onto the unrelenting stretches of sand, she thought that even if her father Omar was to suddenly come by and notice her, he would not recognize her as his daughter.

After only half a day of constant riding, the country road veered into an organized path well worn by marching men and carts of equipment. At midday they arrived in a sort of a stupor, watching the stone watchtowers rise over the horizon, their beacons still smouldering and ready to be stoked at a moment's notice. Looking over the two notes she'd been sent with for the last time, she tore one into many fragments and scattered them to the wind. The other note she held onto, a forged receipt for purchase of a slave. Moving closer still, they noticed the fortress' inner walls with dull red banners fluttering from the roof. Four Franj soldiers guarded its entrance in the distance, and Aasha had to squint to differentiate them from the shrubs growing at the base of the fort.

Malik turned to her, "you dismount here, and come on my horse."

Obediently, Aasha kissed Maymun's sun-warmed mane and tugged her feet out of his stirrups. The movement was more difficult than usual since she came dressed in battered peasant's clothes to fit the role. Malik's blade poked her in the thigh when she moved; last night Nadia sewed it into a hidden pouch on the inside of her skirt. She clambered up onto the assassin's horse and hung tight to his muscled abdomen.

She took a deep breath, "I'm ready." She folded the fake receipt and held it out to Malik, her supposed slaver.

But Malik didn't move, just sat there on his horse looking straight at the Templar fortress up ahead. A fleeting thought came to his mind that they were in a perfect position to just make off into the desert and be done with it. He had a very bad feeling about this. But eventually duty outweighed his intuition, and he reached to take the slip of paper. Their horse began to trot slowly towards the camp.

"How much do you know about Templars?" Malik asked her through gritted teeth.

"Enough to get by, I would hope. I've seen the Knights treat women kindly before."

"But these aren't Knights," the other sneered, "these are soldiers." As if to prove his point, the man spit on the ground.

"Saracen," one of the guards cried when they were suitably close, "give name yourself." His grasp of Arabic was haphazard at best. All this time, she'd tried to avoid them. Today she was to become, even if temporarily, one of them. Her whole body quaked with anticipation and the revulsion of living among and pretending to serve these invaders. Years of being chased by the Franj guards in Jerusalem made her immediately uneasy in their presence.

"A slave, Messire," Malik bowed his head. His voice was surprisingly calm and light, a jarring contrast from the frantic rage his tone betrayed moments before.

"To whom?" The guard demanded.

"T-to Imad El-Amin."

She half felt like it was a good idea, half wanted to kick to assassin for saying it. Hopefully he knew she was coming, and would play along.

The Franj motioned to her, suddenly somewhat hospitable, "to come me, I to show you where Knight. Horse away."

She waited, but Malik didn't act. Aasha mentally rolled her eyes, and then said in a pitiful voice, "please, I don't know how to get off a horse."

Stiffening as if pricked with a pin, Malik scrambled to dismount and helped her off his horse. She was shaking with barely-fake nervousness as he did so, making a point to not look the guards in the eye.

"To come me," the guard beckoned again, but the assassin was not yet done. He held tight to Aasha's hand.

"Messire, it is my duty to see the slave is delivered to my client, please understand."

The guard scowled darkly at him and muttered some words in Frankish to another soldier, who only shrugged in response. "Yes," he said to the two of them rakishly, and allowed them both through the gates. Aasha was secretly impressed.

Wordlessly, they followed after him through the gates and down a flight of stone steps leading to a spacious courtyard. Malik switched from holding her hand to firmly grasping her shoulder, pushing her forward like she was a beast. The two were enveloped at once with the din of a busy morning, servants calling to each other while running back and forth emptying chamberpots and arms piled high with laundry. Knights clapped each other on their backs while marching to their morning exercises, the familiar Templar Cross embossed on their plate armour. None of them paid her any attention as they crossed the ground, not even the lowly squires scrambling after their knights. The whole establishment sounded like pots and pans, the sounds of metallic armour scraping and clanging filling her ears. Her escort stooped to greet some of the Knights, calling them "Messire". Most of them ignored him completely.

Eventually they made their way into the fortress' halls, where more soldiers stood guard and regarded her with a look of utter boredom. Inside the atmosphere was all business, officers stomping through the halls holding sheets of paper, shouting for servants to get out of the way. With Malik pushing her like that, it reminded her of the first time she found herself in Masyaf, where traders yelled at her to make way for their livestock.

Aasha followed the man into an office of sorts, but really the room was occupied entirely by a single ornamental desk, on which a ledger lay. Writing in the ledger was a knight wearing the Templar chain and mantle, a mean looking sword strapped to his trim waist. He looked very serious, and his light blond hair against his fair skin made him look etheral. The soldier who'd escorted her had to clear his throat. Finally the knight noticed their presence, and looked up with a start. Aasha's breath caught in her throat- this Knight had the most beautiful eyes, blue like the sea but grey like a storm. _A stormy sea then_, she decided.

"I'm sorry, I thought I was waiting on a shipment of swords? This is certainly not it." He smiled warmly at her, his Arabic was excellent, and Aasha was momentarily jarred by how well he was able to handle the language. She didn't even know what to think of it, to hear their Holy language spoken out of an infidel's mouth.

She remained silent, looking docile.

"No, Messire," their escort stooped low to greet the knight, "forgive me, this woman is the slave Imad El-Amin sent for."

"I see," the knight rubbed his shaven chin, looking contemplative. "I did not know he wanted a slave, but I suppose it is necessary. She is beautiful indeed. I assume he has already paid for her?"

Malik's grip on her tightened considerably, and he seemed to have trouble swallowing. "Y-yes." He set the folded receipt on the ledger's edge.

The Crusader didn't seem to notice Malik's discomfort, long fingers unfolding the paper and scribbling something into his ledger. "Very well, what is her name?"

Bewildered, the assassin looked to her. "I've… I've forgotten."

Their escort, along with the Knight, laughed. "J'avais oublié leur barbarie," said the soldier in Frankish, "such savages."

"Tais-toi," the knight reprimanded him, and then turned his eyes to Aasha, switching to fluent Arabic. "I only want your name for the records."

"My name is Rani," Aasha offered, and instantly regretted the choice. All the memories of being held captive flooded back and assaulted her, making her dizzy. Malik had to catch her as she swayed, murmuring under his breath that she was almost too good at pretending. Only she wasn't acting- the more the knight stared at her, the sicker she felt.

"Alright," the mystery knight nodded approvingly, writing down the name, "I am Jacques de Sonanac. Can you say that? Jacques?"

"Jaq." She couldn't stop thinking about how kind Jacques looked, not at all like the cruel Franj soldiers who chased after her in the winding cities. Her resolve to distance herself from the Templars was weakening in the face of this confounding young knight who not only spoke her language, but regarded her with such respect. She almost felt bad for having to deceive him.

"That will do, I suppose." Jacques teased, rising noisily from his seat. "Come with me, Rani. As for you, _my friend_, I ask that you take your leave." He addressed Malik this time, who seemed undecided for a moment, and then finally let go of Aasha. There was a bruise forming where he'd laid his hand. The Franj guard led Malik out of the open room. Just as Jacques called for his men to strip the new slave, Malik heaved and vomited his breakfast all over the guard's shiny boots.

"Never mind," Jacques waved them off in Frankish, "see to it that the sick man is escorted out, please. Depechez-vous!"

* * *

It seemed that Jacques was close friends with her new 'master', Imad El-Amin. They spoke in Arabic laced with pieces of Frankish when the equivalent was not in existence, and they spoke with an easiness she'd never seen between Franj and Saracen. Her master's quarters already had a servant's room, but the bunk's corners were crisp and the room reeked of loneliness and the smell of construction. It was a humble dwelling, and she gave her thanks that at least it was clean. She had the essentials; a stool, a chamberpot, an end table, and a cot to sleep on. She noted that there was nothing in which she could put her own things- _slaves didn't have possessions, after all_.

Her master's quarters were noticeably more furnished, but what furnishings there were was utterly covered with layers upon layers of papers and documents. A white clay pitcher and a brass washbasin stood on a chest in a corner of the room, and a stiff looking chair was placed beside the window. And though the furnishings were Franj fashioned, it was obvious that Imad had tried to mix Saracen culture into the room. Bright cushions littered his bed and a stick of some unknown incense was burning on his desk, dangerously close to his pile of disorderly papers.

"I thought it was about time I took a slave for myself," Imad regarded her keenly, and then a large grin spread about his face. "Come, let me take a look at you."

Her stomach swooped when he reached for her, but he did not in fact touch her quite like she'd expected. They let her keep her clothes. He turned her around and made a noise of agreement. He did pat her down, though, and touched upon the hilt of Malik's blade, still tucked into the folds of her skirt.

They looked at each other, Aasha scarcely breathing.

"Very good," Imad said at last, drawing away, "thank you, Jacques."

"Take care, my friend," the knight said in Arabic, his warm gaze flitting between Imad and Aasha. She could not be sure to whom he was addressing.

Once Jacques took his leave, Imad poured her a cup of coffee. "I know to a small extent why you are here," he said somewhat coldly, "you can do as you like as long as you don't get in my way, and act properly when necessary. Do you understand?"

She nodded obediently, accepting the brew. "What will you have me do, master?"

"Don't call me that when we are alone," the man snapped, "I don't much care for it. Save your good acting for the Franj."

Surprised, she studied the man a little more closely. He couldn't be more than thirty years of age, as his body was well muscled and his shoulders were broad. Under his Templar tunic, she could see that he didn't have the loose belly that came with age. His short beard was well trimmed and very dark. By all accounts he was quite handsome, though the stresses of his trade had taken a toll on him. A Muslim man who worked for the Templars- _why?_ She was intrigued by him.

Imad moved the pile of papers from his chair to join the clutter on the table, and sat down. He explained to her his daily routine, pointed to where the chamberpots were to be emptied, and laid out her duties as a slave. He would not be a cruel master since he knew she was not a normal slave, and Aasha at last breathed a sigh of relief.

"If they harass you," Imad relayed seriously, "then you must tell me. Did you know that forty years ago, a law was passed forbidding any man to rape a slave? If a man raped his own slave, he'd be castrated. Anyone else's slave, and he'd be castrated _and_ exiled."

She cleared her throat nervously, "yes, I am aware of that. Thank you."

"I will also ask that you refrain from drawing your blade. But of course, you know this." His eyes narrowed, "I had not anticipated that Al Mualim would send an armed woman. I knew him to be radical, but this is a little odd even for him."

"He-" _he didn't, _she wanted to say, but Imad carried on, "I will not doubt his choice, but if you so much as cut a hair from my friends, I will run you through with my sword."

She decided it was wisest to just close her mouth and keep quiet. "I won't."

"Good!" Imad leaned back in his seat, "the Franj servants found me disgusting. It is a good thing you are here, at least. You can help me organize these papers. Don't look so excited, most are filled with redundant and frivolous ramblings."

"I'm not surprised they were disgusted; this room is a mess," she agreed in good humour, testing her new master's limits.

He shook his head and sighed with displeasure, "if you think this is a mess, you should see my office."

* * *

"I don't want to talk about it."

Altair was greasing the mechanisms of his hidden blade, not even stopping when Malik entered their resting quarters, "I never asked."

"You were going to."

"…Hm."

Malik removed his civilian clothes and changed into assassins' attire, and all the while Altair ignored him, the question clinging clear in the air but neither of them willing to ask it.

Finally, Altair cleared his throat. "What did it look like?"

Outraged that Altair was missing the point, Malik threw his turban at Altair, "What did what look like? Throwing a friend into the hands of Templars and hearing them strip her?"

At the outburst, the other assassin at least had the decency to put a pause to what he was doing. "They stripped her?"

He hadn't seen it, but he'd heard the order being given. "Yes!"

"Then they will discover that blade you lent her, will they not?"

"That is not the point," Malik breathed in exasperation, "but how did you even know I gave her one?"

Altair shrugged, "I saw you."

He got an icy glare in return for his confession, "you should mind your own business."

"You weren't exactly being discreet." A pause. "She'll be alright." He threw the unwound turban back at Malik, who just let it bounce harmlessly off him and hit the floor. He crouched to retrieve it,

"how do you know?"

"She's rather smart for a woman."

"…but she is still a woman." If engaged in combat, unless she could diplomatically resolve the issue she was as good as dead.

Altair's blade retracted, the sound surprisingly loud against their soft voices. "Yes, but of late she has become sharp enough to make me uncomfortable."

Malik sat on Altair's cot, and the other man shifted to make room for him. Though they did have their spats once in a while, the two still called themselves friends. Their relationship was a complicated one, held up by a strong sense of competition in all things, but also of fierce loyalty. "Is it because she is dom?"

"It is possible, but I have never seen her do gypsy magic. She has a certain charm around her, she stands with a natural grace. This is why she can become anything, do anything, within limits of her sex of course."

Speaking of her gender, "I'm surprised she had not taken to learning the blade as the other spies do. They constantly bother the blademaster about it."

"But they don't understand what it means to kill someone, Malik. Do you honestly feel that it is right for a woman to wield a weapon? With an intent to kill?"

Malik wanted to say _yes_ just to spite Altair, but every part of his mind roared a negative. "No, it is not proper." Killing was a man's job, the physical strength and dexterity required to complete the assassination was a man's talent. When the Grand Master at first proposed to accept women into the order many years ago, the decision was made with fierce dispute. Yet he experimented, and found ways to manipulate the beauty of women and also their particular social standing to assist the male assassins. Women could slip by unnoticed in certain areas, for example, since no one suspected their involvement in anything grander than tending to their homes. Over the years, women's roles in the Order were further developed, but still it was too soon for them to learn to kill. "Not proper."

"Exactly, and Aasha knows how to inconspicuously derive the information she needs. It has always been this way; I've never seen her resort to any sort of weapon on any mission."

Being reminded of all the time Altair had spent with Aasha sent a queasy feeling straight into Malik's stomach. He sat with Altair for a little while longer before he could no longer hold back the one burning question he'd had for five years: "Do you care for her? You know, in that way?"

And suddenly, just like that, they were like young boys again. An awkward silence settled between them, and all at once everything was confusing again. Like those times they realized they could touch themselves, or that they had frighteningly little control over when or where they felt the need to relieve their needs. The odd puzzlement struck again when they found themselves utterly mystified just by watching the girls talk to each other. Needless to say, as soon as they were of age they made very good use of Masyaf's concubines. Altair struggled to keep his composure, and looked at everything else except for Malik. "I don't think so."

"Don't think so? What's that supposed to mean?" Malik could not believe he was having this particular conversation with Altair, couldn't even fathom what sorcery even led him to bring this up. "Have you ever wanted to hold her? Ever wanted to kiss her? Can you honestly look into my eyes and tell me you have never felt that way?" _Allah help him, he needed to know._

Now Altair was bracing himself away from the other man, deeply uncomfortable and obviously wanting to run away and yet his pride did not allow it. "What does it matter to you?"

Crushed by the misery of having _himself_ delivered Aasha to the Templars, Malik exploded and gripped Altair by his shoulders, forcibly spinning the other to face him. "It matters to me," he snarled into the assassin's face, his spit flying, "because I have wanted it all this time, and if you take this one thing from me, I will fucking _kill_ you."

Genuinely panicked, Altair did the one thing he had always known to solve all conflicts, even if temporarily: his fist slammed hard into Malik's jaw.

* * *

Within two weeks Aasha saw the problem with the establishment. Its motives were highly secretive- she didn't see the number of soldiers she expected for a Franj fortress, but at the same time enough weapons and armour was arriving by the day to support thousands of men. More, it seemed, was being made in the fortress itself. In the morning she went to dump chamberpots, blending with the rest of the Saracen slaves who were all too curious about where she came from. To curb their curiosity, she told them winding tales of the desert, stories of a simple life until she was kidnapped and sold into slavery.

And no one even commented on how horrible it must have been; none of them were there of their own volition, either. Only the Franj squires seemed to be in very high spirits, and they would spit on the Saracen servants and slaves.

Everywhere flew the brightly coloured banners of the Knights Templar, and the fortress was filled with activity at all hours of the day. Aside from keeping a watchful eye over the fortress' activities, she was intrigued by the Franj. They never spoke to her directly, except perhaps for Jacques. She called him Messire de Sonnac, and she would always ask him how his day was going. Unlike the others, he always responded.

The fortress looked to be in good order at first, and the people seemed to be working well together. But the longer she stayed, the more intrigue was revealed to her. In the halls, relations between knights seemed placid on the surface. They walked together and conversed with one another, but behind closed doors they conspired against one another. She knew this because their attitudes changed as soon as they thought they were alone, sometimes even taking out their anger on her. When she wouldn't respond, they shouted at her some more. With her extremely limited grasp of Frankish, Aasha was only able to gather the most basic understanding of their words. Most of them seemed resentful of their chain of command. She relayed all of this to Masyaf, and increasingly felt that her presence there was unnecessary. Then Nasir finally divulged via pigeon that the Grand Master was suspecting an attack on Masyaf by the Templars, and needed her to stay for as long as he deemed necessary.

She read the note and sighed. The reason was justified- the Templars increasingly saw the assassins as a threat to their cause. She burned the note by a candle's flame and watching the next few months of her life go with it.

Among the servants and slaves, they didn't try to hide their animosity for one another. Alliances were made against each other, and the atmosphere in the servants' quarters was so tense that Aasha could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end. Allah blessed her by delivering her to Imad, allowing her to sleep in her own individual quarters, cramped as it was. All of the servants, regardless of their background or strength or gender, took their power in the hierarchy by the masters they served. Luckily, Imad was well respected among the Saracen slaves, and so they were more curious than jealous of her position. Aasha wasn't at all interested in making herself liked by the other slaves, but felt it necessary for the success of her investigation.

She laughed with them when appropriate, but acted dumb when called upon to conspire against other less fortunate slaves. She didn't need or want to stir up any trouble, and so she got along by acting ignorant of everything.

Each morning she rose before Imad to fetch water and the morning meal, and when she returned sometimes she had to rouse him. Even with the trumpets and the drums, the man was a surprisingly deep sleeper. He would dress himself and eat in his quarters, then would leave for his office. He sometimes ate his midday meal with the knights or soldiers, and most days he retreated back into his quarters. Aasha herself found it difficult to adjust to life in the Templar establishment. For example, she was used to eating mutton and lentils and rice, cooked with many spices and served from a single dish. Here, the Crusaders ate bland tasting meats, boiled vegetables, and bread. She ate with her hands when they weren't looking, unable to hold the knives and forks they gave to her. The Franj were also shockingly uncaring of cleanliness. Imad requested a basin of water brought to his chambers nightly so that he may at least wash his face and feet, and often he allowed Aasha to stick her feet in the same basin for wash. Baths were a rare ordeal among the Crusaders. At midday, Imad was most relaxed, and Aasha took this chance to probe his knowledge base. When she was on her own time, she dawdled about the fortress, helping those who needed it. The plan worked brilliantly, and she would get her hands on maps and plans and all sorts of information- just that she couldn't read any of it. And having looked at some of Imad's own paperwork, she ended up with more questions than answers. "What exactly do you _do?_"

The Arab raised one eyebrow, then another. It was almost comical. "I began as a spy, like you, sent into the Sultan's camps to take note of his equipment stores, number of troops, morale…" he took a long drag of water from a bowl, his eyes still trained on her, "but as of late I fear I have become more of a consultant than spy."

"Are you loyal to the Templars, then?"

"As loyal as a dog to his loving owner. However, as soon as that owner stops feeding him, he will not hesitate to bare his teeth. They paid me well at a time when I needed the coin."

She nodded in understanding, and carried out the actions of her role. The man sat himself on his chair and watched her go about her work, tucking in the corners of his mattress and smoothing out his sheets. Imad hadn't insisted that she do it, but she thought it was best to be on his good side. Finally, he couldn't help but add, "well, that's not all of it."

At first thinking she'd done something wrong, Aasha paused in her work and inspected the sheets.

"No," said Imad, "I mean that over time, I've seen something different in the Templars." Here his voice dropped to a whisper, "I won't say that I'm loyal, but if something were to threaten this fortress, I would seek to protect it. Even if it were Salah ad-Din himself at its gates, I would still take up my arms."

She stared at him, not able to wrap her mind around a fellow Saracen who would willingly follow the Templars. What _had_ he seen in them to turn him against even the bringer of the jihad? "Then why would you help me?"

"Because the assassins will not lay siege to this fortress." He waved a ringed hand curtly at her. "Your concern is justified, and I owe loyalty to your Grand Master for a past kindness. I can tell you directly that there is nothing to be worried about, but no doubt you don't believe me, and will want to see for yourself."

As if to solidify her trust in him, Imad took her on tours of the fortress, to the knights' great amusement. They imagined the slave girl Rani being a pet for the Saracen, what with the way she followed him. He showed her the pavilions where the Franj archers resided, and the small camps where foot soldiers were to live.

"Most of them have not yet arrived," he explained when she frowned at their pitifully meagre numbers.

He led her to the stables where the Franj kept their horses, and Aasha began to wonder if Maymun had made it back to Masyaf under Malik's watch. Sometimes as she accompanied her master on these strolls, they would see supplies, foodstuffs, weapons, and furniture being carted into the fortress. One afternoon, a dozen oxcarts clattered into the court, and tall men in turbans unloaded from the carts innumerable pieces of furniture- chairs, tables, chests, all inlaid with brass and polished to a warm finish. Most of them were carved with symmetrical designs that reminded her of the Damascus Rafiq's pots. Aasha repeatedly tried to count the chests, but failed. There were too many of them. Fortunately, Jacques de Sonnac was there with his hefty ledger, dutifully recording the number of each item that passed through the fortress gates. One cursory look at the pile of chests had him writing down an exact number.

Once in a while her master stopped to speak with the knight, the two of them looking to be on fairly good terms. Never before had she seen a Saracen and a Templar Knight interact in this way, and it made her dizzy. Knowing that she did not need to run from the knight made her dizzy as well… or maybe it was simply the way he held himself that both intimidated and charmed her.

On one particularly busy day, Jacques looked distinctly distressed, and the Arab asked if there was anything he could do to help. "I will need an extra set of hands to carry my things, and unfortunately I have no squire," the knight replied, looking pointedly at Aasha.

Imad heartily agreed to let him borrow his slave, and so Aasha trailed Messire de Sonnac to the knights' barracks. The knight heavily favoured his left arm and did indeed have too much to carry. This left leaving Aasha to awkwardly clutch onto a heavy pile of leather smelling rank with vinegar, barely able to see above them to follow the knight. As they strolled past, it was like walking through a tented street. Everywhere were flying the banners and pennons of knights, some Templar and some Hospitaller, and war horses were in the midst of being groomed or chewing on hay. Helmets of all shapes and sizes were being rubbed and polished by the men there, and spears and bows were scattered all over the place. Finally setting down the leather, Aasha stroked her cramping arms and noticed red crosses everywhere. The men did not even notice her, going about their day as they usually did. If they did, it was to pat her on the behind or holler things in Frankish that made Jacques angry. He would shout back at them, and remind Aasha to stay close to him. The whole place stank with sweat.

"Yonder there is a mosque for heathen worship," one man spoke to another, pointing in the direction of Masyaf. He was painfully uninformed, but Aasha did not try to correct him as she passed. "We saw another one in Acre. Their priests are dressed in queer clothes and in the mornings they shout out _ala ala_ or something of the sort. Heathenish infidels!"

"Do you think Saladin really means to take back Jerusalem?" His companion asked him, still working away at polishing his helmet. The headdress looked like a dinner plate turned upside down to Aasha.

"It would be madness."

"But with King Richard tethered in England and de Ridefort so indecisive... I fear for the Holy City."

Emerging out of the barracks in the afternoon, Aasha felt drained. She collapsed onto her cot and curled in on herself to keep warm. She would give anything to feel Altair's arms around her again, to smell the scent of safety that emanated from his embrace. She was asleep for only a few moments when Imad called on her to bring him his evening meal.

* * *

_End of Chapter 5._

* * *

**J'avais oublié leur barbarie** - I had forgotten their savagery.

**Tais-toi** - Be quiet.

Richard the Lionheart was occupied in Europe during this time. To clarify, I have tried to match the events to the characters' ages. Currently, Jerusalem is in Christian hands. Gerard de Ridefort, the Grand Master of the Templar Knights at that time, was known to be a highly indecisive individual. He would make blunders on the battlefield, and so on. Technically, the Third Crusade has not yet started.

I wanted to put Aasha among the Templars for a while so she could experience the other side of the war. So often we immediately associate the Crusaders with evil people who have to be driven from the land... When in reality the situation is a little more complex. Personally, I have always wanted to see the inside of a Templar camp. Plot wise, this builds up Aasha's own views on the Holy War and gives her some experience to compare to Altair and Malik. This mission will also prove a point that carries on to the rest of the fic.

This will probably also be her last mission that I go so in-depth on. After this, it will be all Altair + Malik.

Malik's conversation with Altair discusses the role of women in the Assassin Order... among other things. ;) To Malik, he'd basically sentenced her to death.

I hope Imad's interaction with Aasha is believable and that I wrote it in a way that comes across clearly. On the other hand, I seem to be falling in love with Jacques. Damn you blond french knights, always stirring up trouble.

**Please review and let me know your thoughts and suggestions! Anything- it makes me feel warm and fuzzy to know people are reading. :) **


	6. Image 195: Jacques de Sonnac

Sometimes Malik felt so old. He helplessly watched Kadar grow from a child to a man, unable to stop the passing of time. He wished Kadar would remain a child; felt that he was too kind to be an assassin. In a way, the young man hadn't aged at all. He still regarded the world through the eyes of a boy, filled with curious excitement and overly eager to act.

Years ago, Malik killed a man for the first time. Though he was well trained and the kill did not come as a surprise, Malik was still stunned by the feeling of absolute crushing guilt he felt. He was always taught that the targets were there enemy, that they'd all committed horrible sins for which they deserved no sympathy, no remorse. Malik felt close to nothing when his hidden blade sank into his target's neck, felt little when he crumpled to the ground. But still, scrambling up a wall with his heart hammering in his chest, he heard the man crying out for his mother.

Then, from the safety of a rooftop pavilion, he watched the man writhing in pain on the deserted street. Blood gushed from his wound, a messy kill not preferred by the assassins. Malik had to cover his ears because he still heard the man, calling for his mother and father, praying vehemently to Allah to forgive him as he entered his Holy Kingdom. The man died alone- no one heard his cries. A hot blanket of guilt suffocated him, and he cried then. Frantically rubbing his bloodied hands against the ground until they turned raw, Malik let his tears fall. In the end, they were all the same. What right did he have to take another man's life like that? _What sort of duty was this?_

It took merely a moment to end a life, a life built up slowly - lovingly- over decades. It was disillusioning. He returned from that mission with a new perspective, and he watched Kadar grow and mourned that one day, he as well would perish. Inevitably, they would all perish, even Altair. Over time, he grew used to the sight of blood and the screams of men in pain- it no longer bothered him to kill.

When Kadar received his first novice level mission years earlier, he was so excited that the other assassins kept asking him if he was on hashish. He had flushed with embarrassment, remembering a time of insouciance long gone.

When they were both young and were not yet men, he and Malik found pieces of hashish while cleaning out the stables. Most likely left behind by older assassins smoking it in the solitude of the barn, the odd green patches of what looked like dried grass beckoned to them. Stupidly, they went and found a hookah and brought it to the stables, their eyes wild with the expectation that they were going to experience something only real men could know. Made brave by their youth, they tucked themselves into a corner of the stable and smoked all of it. They didn't care about the repercussions, just knew that they couldn't leave anything behind. For a few moments they felt as if they were idiots and had just inhaled the smoke of dead grass.

And then the drug took its effect. A short time of euphoria, during which the two brothers felt like they were floating… And then there was the horrible, deafening anxiety. Devastating paranoia, crushing shame, a cacophony of white noise. The world crashed down around them, and Kadar clung to Malik's robe, crying that he was afraid. Nearly soiling himself with his own fear, Malik managed to stand up just barely before falling back onto the dirt floor. They shouted for help, and it wasn't long before someone heard them.

They were dragged before Nasir, some twenty years their elder, and were made to confess everything. A number of novices and assassins alike gathered to watch, some of them laughing. The two brothers vomited until they were sure they no longer had stomachs.

Then, later, when they were feeling more or less normal again and were tasked with the job of cleaning up their mess, the two brothers chuckled at each other. Altair came by and told them they were stupid for doing it, and that made Kadar feel unbelievably self-conscious. When Kadar started to apologize - _for what? For being curious?-,_ Malik had had enough.

"Fuck off," Malik crossed his arms, overcome by a sudden streak of aggression. Kadar's head snapped up, having rarely ever heard his brother speak like this. He remained silent- it was probably from the hashish. "He's _my_ brother."

"Yes," Altair agreed, not fazed at all, "and you're doing a piss-poor job of being _his_."

"There's nothing wrong with mistakes," the other countered, "everyone makes them. Don't you have anything better to do? Have you done your daily ass-kissing today, Altair?"

Said assassin's face contorted in anger, "yes, I've done my fair share. And you should thank me for it, since my so called 'ass-kissing' saved you both twenty lashes."

And then Malik felt so old despite his sixteen years, watching Altair stomp away angrily and wondering why they ever stopped being friends.

He felt it again at eighteen, returning from his first real assassination and having to deal with all of Kadar's questions.

And now once more he felt himself utterly helpless, staring at the sapphire night sky, studded with starry gems. _Was Aasha looking at this same sky? Was she safe? _

He regretted not having made clear his feelings for the girl, though he knew that their respective duties would separate them. He only wished she'd known before she left for that gruellingly long mission, for despite everything Malik still saw in her the remnants of a lonely childhood. Her smiles didn't reach her eyes, and when she said one thing usually she felt the other. He knew this from watching her day after day, and never once did he see her eyes light up at anything her so called 'friends' said or did. He couldn't keep her from his mind, though she'd changed much from the young girl who'd so entranced him many years ago with her desert songs when she thought no one was listening. She stopped singing them long ago; maybe she forgot the words, or maybe she succumbed to the shame of being different.

She was like a delicate flower- when she allowed him close he was afraid he would ruin her. He knew little of her past, and when she started to tell him of it, he could see it made her ache. She even let him touch her bead necklace, but Malik being afraid of some curse, had refused to. He was stupid for that, and had lost a fair bit of her trust.

So he distanced himself, not wanting to damage her, but by doing so he had made her hurt more. He didn't know a proper way to approach such a girl, not when he couldn't see inside her mind like how he could read the others. His curiosity for the girl reached the point of obsession.

The others teased him for his attentions, but in a way he felt obliged to protect her. Of course, there were always other girls. At one point nearly all the boys lusted after Leyla, and pleasured themselves with her face in their minds, imagining her legs spread wide for them. Routinely, they'd team up together and try to fluster the girls by making lewd comments about their bodies. While most of them would blush and try to hide, some of them even goading them on and either reacting aggressively or flirtatiously, Aasha never said anything. She didn't blush either, nor did she hide from them. She stood defiantly against their teasing, her eyes hard and her mouth pursed in a thin line, determined to go about her way. Eventually, the boys decided she was no fun, but Malik never stopped watching her. Now she was nineteen and no longer a girl- Malik still watched.

By watching, he noticed that he'd never truly seen her happy. It was only when she returned from missions about the kingdom, when she came back dazed and flustered by liberty, did he see her come alive. She'd rip away her headscarf and throw it to the ground, her dark hair swaying as she gracefully guided her favourite stallion to his stall, humming peacefully. Once every few weeks if Malik was lucky, he caught a glimpse of beauty.

* * *

Slowly but surely, Aasha began to piece together the puzzle of the fortress. There was a very real possibility that the fortress was built to one day lay siege to Masyaf, but at the present all hostile intentions were a slowly bubbling brew under the surface of military placidity. Indeed, the officers here seemed as confused as she was. She relayed messages back to Masyaf via pigeon, and received very little in return. They wanted her to stay a while longer. When the sixth pigeon arrived with the same news, she knew her purpose. Al Mualim wanted her to be a sleeping spy, ready at all times to deal sabotage or strike at the enemy. She had no way of knowing just how long she would have to stay here, and each day she yearned to see Nadia's kind face, Altair's arrogant stride, or even hear Malik's insolent jabs.

But while she was there, she took the chance to learn more of the Franj from Imad, who was more than eager to teach her their complicated history from his perspective.

"Some eighty years ago, the Franj arrived, along with the Templar Knights. They took Jerusalem and slaughtered every living thing they saw in the name of their Christian God. It was horrific- the amount of bloodshed was not based on military tactic, but rather to rouse terror. The city of Damascus built up its defenses and called for aid, but their rival kingdoms held back their troops until it was too late."

"Regardless, it did not fall," said Aasha, remembering what Altair had told her on their first mission together.

Imad clicked his tongue, "you are right, though the Franj laid siege to the city not long after. The two European kings hated each other, you see, and couldn't work together to take the city. King Louis of France and King Conrad of Germany did not understand the conditions here, and tried to take Damascus despite it being a horrible tactical plan. Then once laying siege, they made several devastating mistakes, one after the other, and eventually failed to take Damascus from Nured-Din. Still, Jerusalem is under Templar rule, as is has been for decades. The European kings are still squabbling today, just in time for Salah ad-Din to gain his power and build the largest army ever amassed. The army is still being built as we speak. Salah ad-Din seeks to take back Jerusalem first, I am sure, as the city has been in the hands of the Franj for four generations now… But he won't engage them until the battle season."

"I know all this," she frowned, "why not tell me how it all began?"

"How what began?"

"Why the Franj keep coming, why they keep fighting?" She knew of events as they occurred, having read and learned and memorized them as part of her classes. But her instructors never ever contemplated _why_.

Imad closed his eyes softly, smoothing his hands over his robe. "That is a difficult question to answer. We share the same Holy City, we and the Franj, and to them they are following the will of their God."

"But their God is a false god," Aasha added, to which Imad just shook his head with disappointment.

"I wish I could say I still believed it. By the book, our Gods are one."

And then there was an urgent rapping at the door, and Aasha rose from her seat at Imad's feet to open it. She bowed deeply by habit, "Messire de Sonnac." Jacques was the only knight she would bow to voluntarily and not feel the familiar stirrings of disgust in her belly.

Said knight smiled down at her kindly, but his voice was gruff. "You may rise, and please leave us alone for a moment."

She nodded and made to leave, completely expecting Imad to bid her stay as he usually did when Franj men dismissed her. Except this time Imad didn't stop her. Not letting her surprise guide her actions, she slipped out of the room and closed the door. Imad had tolerated her presence until now, but it seemed there were some things even he wanted to keep secret.

Jacques exited the room a candlemark later, looking sheepish. Having returned with an armload of clean laundry, Aasha bowed and gave him the usual greeting. But for the first time, in his haste to leave, the knight seemed not to hear.

* * *

"What is it like where you come from?"

Jacques lowered his quill and looked to the slave girl, who had her eyes downcast. He was not in high spirits today, and had much to do. The ledger needed to be organized again, and some supplies needed to be allocated. He almost wanted to tell her to get back to work. She had no place to ask him questions, after all. But as his good friend Imad was so fond of her, the knight thought he might indulge her for a little while. "It is cloudy," he said, "but very beautiful. There are many lush forests and thick meadows where I come from, not so much sand like there is here."

Aasha tried to imagine lots of desert shrubs and trees clumped together, and thought it must look very ugly. She continued on sweeping along the floor, even though Jacques kept his work area very orderly and there wasn't much to do in the first place. This was probably why he was not even assigned a squire- he himself took care of his role all too well. Aasha, on the other hand, made a very good slave, being almost obsessive with cleanliness. She'd already cleared up the impossible mess in Imad's quarters and in his office- the man joked that she would make a man very happy one day. Said former spy also recommended her to pose some questions to Jacques, saying that the knight could offer her some good insight.

"But he is a knight," she gaped, "and I am but a woman slave."

"But he is kind," Imad countered with a glint in his eye, "and if the history is all you want to know, he has much to say about it."

Aasha did not ask him about what that time Jacques made her leave. Imad acted no differently around her, and she thought it best to just drop the subject for fear of damaging their relationship. So now here she was, trying to make friends with a Templar Knight. _Huh!_ If only Malik could see her now.

She had to act ignorant. She could not give away the extent of her knowledge. Feigning childish wonder, she continued to converse with the knight, making certain not to overstep the thin line between curiosity and suspicious behaviour.

"Are there things here that you didn't have over there?"

Jacques scarcely looked up from his work, "there is an interesting amount of culture among Saracens to be sure. Poetry, music, literature, medicine… I will admit that we have learned many things along our journey to regain the Holy Land. And of course, Jerusalem is here, the city where Jesus Christ lived and died."

To regain the Holy Land. Not that she hadn't known that, but it sounded preposterous coming from his mouth. Before she could stop herself, she blurted, "this is_ our_ Holy Land, too. Jerusalem is where our Prophet Mohammed went to heaven to speak with Allah."

This, at least, got the knight's attention. Far from being angry like she'd expected, he looked tired; dejected. "Yes, I know of your Prophet, Peace be with Him."

"Y-you do?" Genuine surprise, for it seemed the knight even held some sort of respect for him.

"Yes, I have studied your Holy Scriptures. So tell me, Rani, do you hate me for my work?"

Jarred by the direct question, she shook her head no. "Not you, Messire, since you are so kind to me." _Not when you speak the language of the scriptures._

"That is good to know, little Rani." She was really not so little anymore, as a young woman nearing twenty years of age. But by keeping her eyes wide and her movements indecisive, she fooled him into a false sense of easiness.

"You speak Allah's tongue very well," Aasha observed dimly, "how did you learn, Messire?"

"I was taught as a young boy, and I pursued studies in Saracen culture. I am even well versed in the Quran. It is always good to know the enemy." He didn't say how studying the Saracens had made him realize how horrifyingly similar they were to each other. They believed in much the same concepts and base morals, and yet they were killing one another.

_The enemy._ "But you are so kind to me," she kept her eyes low, "I don't understand how you can kill… kill others and yet be so kind."

Jacques was quiet for a moment, "Rani, do you know how the Knights Templar came to be?"

Aasha admitted truthfully that she didn't.

"After the Crusaders took Jerusalem in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ," the knight began, picking up his quill again and scratching at the ledger, "Bernard de Claivaux formed the order of the Knights of the Temple, today known as the Templar Knights. From the beginning, we were meant to be a police force of warrior monks, primarily serving the role of protecting pilgrims as they walked to and from Jerusalem by the River Jordan. See, bandits were a great problem- they still are today, but that is besides the question."

"Warrior… _monks?_" How could a man be both a warrior and a monk? Did the two words not contradict one another?

"Yes," said Jacques, "you will find that I pray many times a day. All the knights do. The best knights across all of Europe rallied to become a Knight of the Temple, but only the strongest, bravest, and most steadfast in their loyalty to God were chosen. We swore oaths to the Lord Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, Mother of God."

It didn't answer her original question. In her time studying at Masyaf, she had reviewed some of the Holy Scriptures of the Franj. In it were listed the commandments all men had to follow, and according to this supposed Holy Text, the greatest sin was to kill. She tried to be more direct, knowing she was walking on eggshells, "but why do you kill innocent Saracens?"

Jacques' eyebrow twitched, "whatsoever is done with good intent cannot lead to evil. And on the contrary, the knights do not kill 'innocent Saracens'." He was becoming impatient now. The questions the young woman was posing were making him uncomfortable.

"But in the First Crusade, the Franj killed-"

He set down his quill again, this time looking very angry, "who told you this?"

Her instructors at Masyaf had told her. "My master," Aasha defended herself smartly. This was now a personal mission. She wanted to hear from this knight's lips verification that what they were doing was wrong. They were defiling and drenching the Holy Land with blood of its citizens, and it was absolutely _wrong_.

"A woman has no use for knowing of this," Jacques snapped, and then his eyes softened. "But what you speak of is not the work of the Templar Knights in any case."

He buried himself in his labour again before she could say anything else, and scratched away madly at his ledger. He reminded her of the Rafiqs in the Assassin's Bureaus, who worked tirelessly to ensure each mission was successful and that the assassins returned safely. In the back of her mind, she drew the troubling conclusion that the Templars and the Assassins were more alike than she thought.

"What are you doing?"

Perhaps that was too blunt, because Jacques slammed down his quill and glowered coldly at her. Aasha nearly stumbled back in fear- she had never seen that sort of look on the handsome man's face.

"What am I doing, you ask?" He threw up his hands in fury, "I am sitting here, ordering consumable supplies for troops that constantly fail to show. Raids and confusion have kept them away, the knights who are meant to be here have not arrived either- they are held back by that _idiot _de Ridefort!"

She knew of Gerard de Ridefort, the Grand Master of the Templars. She had not, however, anticipated their animosity towards him. "Why is this a bad place?" she fed his fire, "there is a steady supply of water near here."

"It's far enough from Jerusalem and yet close enough to march there on days' notice- and it is equidistant from a number of Crusader castles. This is all good and well, but the man thinks too simply… the fort is too close to Masyaf. He underestimates the assassins, thinks Masyaf can be so easily taken. The knights killed a Saracen man just yesterday for trying to climb the gates to the fort."

_There_- definitive proof that there was soon to be a siege of Masyaf. Knowing that none of her brothers would attempt such an unpolished entrance, she saw no harm in asking, "was he an assassin?"

"No, but we must be on our guard." As if then realizing he had said too much, Jacques shook his head, "I must take a moment from my work, I grow more tired by the minute. Bring me some food and drink."

By theory and conduct, she owed no loyalty but to her master. But by habit, she deferred to the man's order.

When she returned with a plate of fruit and a pitcher of wine, the knight was no longer alone in his study. She opened the door to his office and saw her master Imad arguing with the knight. They were so focused on one another, yelling and shouting in a confounding mix of Arabic and Frankish, that they missed her entrance completely. She set down the platter and wine on a nearby counter, only to see Imad suddenly lunge towards the Franj. Thinking that the knight was going to be killed, she finally unsheathed the dagger she kept hidden sewn into a pocket of her tunic. She was not confident with it and did not desire bloodshed, but she would follow Imad- if he wanted Jacques dead, he would have it so. Kind man or not, the infidel would die before he harmed her fellow Saracen.

But instead, Imad trapped the knight's face between his blocky hands and smashed their faces together in a violent joining that was all teeth and blood and desperation. It was Jacques who pulled away, his eyes meeting Aasha's, opened wide with bewilderment. Then those slate blue orbs drifted to the dagger in her hand, "your slave."

Before Aasha had a chance to collect her bearings after having witnessed the puzzling scene, Imad had already disarmed her and sent her colliding against the wall with a blow to the head.

* * *

_The Crusaders were on strict orders not to fornicate with the Saracen women. Not that the orders were heeded, as Franj men packed themselves nightly in Acre's brothels. The Templar Knights, however, took vows of celibacy and dedicated themselves, body and soul, to God. Jacques de Sonnac was an eager young man of about fifteen, and in his tiny village his only encounters with women were with his mother. Suddenly in the Holy Land he was surrounded by women at all turns. Servants, slaves, noblewomen… he felt desire towards them of course- couldn't tear his eyes from their plump breasts and pretty lips. There was one girl in particular who just took his breath away. And oh, did he pay for it. Being naïve and good-natured, he confessed his thoughts to the priest in Jerusalem. As punishment for his sin of lust, he spent weeks in isolation, being fed only bread and water and studying the Holy Bible. _

_Except Jacques didn't lust after the girl, he felt he loved her. Love, too, was a sin. The boy couldn't understand why love was a sin if God gave it to humanity as a gift as he was so often told. To make things worse, he dreamt of her in his sleep, and woke up self-defiled. He'd be beaten for it. Did God despise him so to make him sin against his will? Jacques was at a loss. _

_When it was decided that his linguistic ability would be put to use learning the heathenish Quran, he felt as if he would never be a knight. Yes, he rode with the others and trained with them, but why was only he being taught the infidel's tongue and culture? But his instructor was not an old Saracen heathen like he'd expected- Imad El-Amin seemed only a few years older than him. The young man was patient, and seemed genuinely interested in making him understand the Saracen's Holy Scriptures. At first Jacques resisted, refuting Imad's teachings. "My God is the only True Faith," he would say, and cross his arms and wait for a reaction. But the Arab would only smile and shrug. Eventually his mild demeanour won Jacques over, and the young Franj began to learn. He learned to speak in their language and the customs of their culture, and studied the Quran with Imad. He learned of the Holy Prophet Mohammed, and how Jerusalem was also Holy City to the Muslims. Horrified with what he discovered, he ran from the Arab and searched the knight to whom he served. He dropped to one knee in front of the startled man,_

_"Messire," he asked, "why do we kill the Saracens?"_

_His master blinked down at him, "what an interesting question. It is because we are Crusaders, and we do the work of God."_

_"So God wills them to die?"_

_"The Lord Jesus of course does not mean that we should kill other children of God," the Templar Knight shrugged, motioning for his squire to stand. He was just enjoying a cup of water in his barrack, and had not expected his squire to come rushing in with such odd inquiries. He knew the young squire was being taught of the enemy, however. The Grand Master of the Templar Knights had decreed that it was necessary for knights to understand the enemy in order to fully carry out their duties. Jacques was one of the few squires chosen to learn the Saracen language, being young enough for it to be of use later. "But there are some people not included in the Lord's list of prohibitions."_

_"Who?" _

_The knight frowned, tipping back the last of his wine and looking disappointed in his squire, "the Saracens, of course. They are animals, not even human. Every Saracen dead is a pleasing sight for our Lord's eyes. We kill Saracens because by sending them to hell, we gain our place in Paradise." _

_Feeling satisfied but not really, Jacques returned to Imad and apologized for acting the way he did. The Arab assured him that it was alright- that he'd expected the reaction. Then Imad asked if he could hold the squire, and Jacques was stunned but agreed. He thought it was perhaps another Muslim custom he now had to learn. _

_But he never saw Imad embrace anyone else - man or woman, Saracen or Franj – the way he did him. Under Imad's careful instruction, Jacques became fully fluent in the Saracen tongue, and could recite verses from the Quran. His master joked that he was becoming Saracen himself, but Jacques didn't think of it that way. Learning Muslim culture made him so much wiser, and two years later he was declared a Knight of the Temple. They bestowed upon him his own sword, kissed and blessed by the Holy Priest, and had him recite an oath to God twice in Frankish and once in Latin. _

_"I, Jacques de Sonnac, swear by Jesus Christ… At the Holy Sepulchre and the Temple, that the sword I now receive…" _

_When he at last said amen, he felt like a different man. Finally, he was a knight. That evening he met Imad to thank him for all his instruction over the years. He was a knight now, and would no longer take lectures from him. The Saracen said nothing, just took his hand and pulled him to his bed. This time, Jacques knew this was no Saracen cultural custom._

_"No," he gasped, "what are you doing?"_

_Imad looked pained, his face was flushed. Jacques knew exactly what was going on- he didn't have to look down to know the man was erect. "No," the knight said again, looking away and closing his eyes. He wrenched his hand roughly from Imad's grip, "no." It wasn't like he hadn't thought of it. Oh yes, the thoughts were there, but vehement praying could chase them away if he tried hard enough. He was a knight now, he reminded himself, and he could not lust after any person, woman or man. It was probably worse if he lusted after a man, so he didn't even want to think of that alternative. _

_"Can you not at least… lie in the same bed as I?" _

_"Why?"_

_"Because your companionship would make me happy." _

_That didn't sound so wrong. And Jacques did like to make people happy. He'd slept in the same bed with his brothers before, and it didn't seem so horrible. In fact, when barrack space was limited, as a squire he slept on the same cot with his knight! And of course, it wasn't like Jacques did not also desire Imad's company. Having run out of excuses not to oblige the man, Jacques finally resented, but requested first that the Arab take care of the evidence of his sin. "I will come back later," he promised, but Imad obviously didn't believe he would._

_"Stay, please!" Without any hesitation whatsoever, Imad strode to his dresser on which rested a basin of cold water for washing. Before the newly knighted man could cover his eyes, the Saracen untied his trousers and took out his stiff member, plunging it into the water. _

* * *

"Why was she armed?"

Imad had to tread carefully- he could not reveal Aasha's identity. "I gave her the dagger to deliver to Messire de Gagnion for study. It is a model of the Saracen blade I've found to be more effective at slicing through flesh and chain than that of yours." He pressed some cloth to the unconscious young woman's temple, the linen coming away clean. Good- at least she didn't bleed. Jacques did not know she was not in truth his slave, and if Aasha were to die by Imad's blow, he would be held accountable.

"Let me see it, then." The fair knight held out his palm for the thing, and his lover obliged him. He turned the blade around and around in his hands, noting the modest embellishment and relatively dull edge. "You lie to me. There is nothing special about this dagger."

"There is a dented line running through its centre, see? It allows flesh to easily break away and makes the blade glide cleanly and effortlessly through metal." Imad continued to lie blatantly.

Jacques threw the worthless weapon down onto the ground of Imad's chambers, the dagger spinning across the floor until it hit and came to stop at the Arab's boot. The Crusader crossed his arms, "I will not report this to my superior if you would just tell me the truth. After all these years, you still feed me false stories."

The Saracen rose to his feet and met the knight's eyes, "and you still threaten me."

"Only because it is my duty."

Imad reached out to him, his palm resting over where the other's heart lay underneath a thin layer of chainmail, "you have neglected your duty before for my sake."

And Jacques wanted at that moment nothing more than to swat that hand from his body and break each of its fingers one at a time. The man could be so insufferable. "That was a different time, and we were under different circumstances."

Carefully edging ever closer, Imad's hand drifted to the knight's shoulder, and he pressed their noses together. With his other arm joining the Franj against him by their waists, he revelled in his lover's scent. "You let me live because you loved me."

The knight did not fall into the Saracen's advances, standing stiff like a statue. "So I did. I fear I have made the wrong choice- you will be the death of me."

When Aasha came to, her eyes fluttering, she tried to remain as still as possible because the nausea was overpowering. She heard distorted voices conversing in Arabic- Imad and Jacques, she realized, and it was all too much to make sense of. She had just seen the two of them engaged in an act that only lovers carried out. Men were supposed to kiss women like that. A man was not meant to press his lips to another man's, much less to those of a Franj infidel.

"The king will not send reinforcements," she overheard Jacques saying, "and Salah ad-Din's army grows stronger by the day. Even with the assassin threat taken care of, one day we will clash… and what of us then?"

"I will always be by your side, my friend." That was Imad.

"Somehow, I don't believe you… My _friend_."

"Then in your mind, what would I do? Run off to join Salah ad-Din's_ jihad_ because he'd pay me more? Has your opinion of me really fallen so low? I will not make the same mistakes again, not when so much is at stake."

The knight's tone took on a derisive quality, "first you take in a slave without consulting me, and then you treat her like she is your family. Suddenly she draws a blade- _a blade_, and you defend her. You deliberately lied to me, and even now you refuse to cooperate."

Imad's voice remained warm, "I am sorry you feel so slighted, Jacques. I will admit I allowed her to hold a weapon in her possession, and that it comes from her father. It is her last memory of him, the poor girl, and as you can see it is not very sharp anyway. I did not want to take it from her, since when I did she would descend into hysterics and I would no longer have a slave to clean up my messes."

"…You _do_ live like a swine."

"And _you_ don't bathe."

Jacques clicked his tongue in annoyance, but when he spoke he sounded amused. "You know that we are not allowed to!"

The Arab laughed, "Then you cannot pass judgment on me. I wish I still had my eager young squire to organize my quarters for me! But now he is a handsome knight and beyond my order, and so I daresay she is all I've got. In fact, I think she had thoughts to defend you- she saw me coming at you and thought I would hurt you. I liked her because she was very loyal and had roots with the Dom, like my mother."

There was a tense silence during which Aasha thought they'd noticed she was awake. Jacques was shifting from side to side, the wooden floorboards creaking under his feet. When he finally responded, he still seemed unconvinced. "How _heart-warming._ I have had enough of you for one night, I will take to my quarters and we will speak again in the morning."

"As always, _mon coeur_."

Whatever he'd said, it was doing strange things to the knight. Aasha had turned her head so she could catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, and what she saw made her stomach clench. The Franj truly did seem conflicted- he stood there awkwardly, his supple fingers twitching at his sides, looking not at all unlike how Malik appeared when he was trying to think of a witty jab to use on the gypsy. Finally, the knight scoffed and turned on his heel, making quick and efficient strides out of the room and shutting the door firmly behind him.

Aasha closed her eyes, knowing in her bones the time to act had come. If she were to relay this information back to Masyaf, she had no doubt that death would befall this fortress. In a way, she wished she'd never known, and wished she hadn't heard. She should not feel guilt for doing her duty, but indeed she did. Perhaps this was what Malik felt when he drew his blade to slay his first target.

* * *

End of chapter 6.

* * *

Because writing Malik and Kadar getting high is fun. Times really haven't changed that much, it seems. And Altair still has a heart... Lol. :)

Anyways, there were many Templar Knights who were trained to speak fluent Arabic in order to carry out their duties more efficiently. It is arguable that there were some knights that, after learning the Saracen culture and their Holy Scriptures, felt conflicting moral duty between their faith and that of the Muslims. After all, Islam and Christianity came from the same source and shared many similar beliefs.

I wanted to explore the concept of **homosexuality** in those times. After all, throughout history everywhere there has always existed people attracted to their own gender, and 12th century Syria is no exception. I approached it very cautiously, for back then the act was largely regarded as the worst form of sodomy on both sides of the war. The Knights Templar in particular were warrior monks, sworn to celibacy. Thus to commit sodomy was a heinous act punishable by death. As you can see, simply lusting after a woman was punishable to an excessive extent. However, as of recently I have been reading some academic papers on homosexuality within the ranks of the Templar Knights, and it seems that a considerable number of knights actually engaged in acts of sodomy. Some confessed under torture, some confessed voluntarily. They mentioned kissing each other on the face and mouth, which was actually somewhat acceptable at that time. Others, however, admitted to kissing each other on the back, neck, and at 'the base of the spine', which probably referred to the buttocks. This was officially crossing the line into gross sodomy. A select few even gave ardent descriptions of full on anal intercourse between male knights. Obviously I cannot simply run away with this and claim they were all raging homosexuals, so I applied the knowledge delicately. It seems believable to me that there were acts of homosexuality among the Templar Knights, though they would have been highly frowned upon and in some cases punishable.

The Templars, in effect, should not be seen as the "bad" people. They were simply believers of their faith, and under misguidance and cumulative radicalization resorted to horrible acts against Saracens. I hope to prove a point with all this, and I sincerely wish it's coming across in my writing.

**Mon coeur-** my heart.

Thanks, and once again **please leave a review if you read. **


	7. Image 203: Gerard de Ridefort

When Altair heard of the plot, he could scarcely believe it. They were assassins, not soldiers. Surely they could not bring down a whole fortress of Templar knights. Their spy had spent months in the fortress and had relayed a considerable amount of intelligence into Masyaf, the latest pigeon having bringing the most decisive of all.

"De Ridefort is sending his knights to the fortress by Masyaf's north so that they might not be easy targets for Salah ad-Din's raids as he waits for the battle season," Nasir explained to his assassins on behalf of the Grand Master, "once they have gathered up their forces, the Franj mean to turn on Masyaf and destroy the Assassin Order. Then they ride to Jerusalem, where they will lead the fight against Salah ad-Din's army as the Sultan grapples to regain the Holy City. We must put a stop to their plots before they can muster their men."

"Why destroy the assassins?" Someone called out, to which Nasir replied quite simply,

"Because we are Saracen and we are bothers to them, and they have no reason not to."

Finally the long awaited question was posed, "how are we meant to kill them all?"

"We will not do it," said Nasir, "Salah ad-Din will do it for us. He too desires to eradicate as many knights as possible before recapturing Jerusalem, and thanks to our brothers and sisters who have been so diligently working to spoon the information into the Sultan's mouth, he now knows of their plans. The knights shall fall to his blade, and the Order will prosper to see the Franj infidels driven from the land."

Then it was to be so. Salah ad-Din had made a temporary pact with the Assassins. Due to the terrain and logistics issues, bringing a small army to lay siege to the fortress would spell disaster for him. The knights would notice his approach and muster their forces against him, resulting in a bloodbath the Saracens could not win. Thus, the Sultan had no choice but to rely on the assassins, who could mobilize quickly and without unsettling the Franj. The fighting force itself would only be a dozen or so skilled men, comprised of his best soldiers and of skilled assassins. They would lure out the knights when they were weak, and slay them. The Franj would never conceive of such an attack, and it was all made possible by the work of one spy who'd managed to gain the trust of one knight.

Funny, how the smallest things made the biggest differences.

Both Altair and Malik were chosen, among two others, to lay siege to the Templar fortress. Malik's relief was evident at the knowledge that Aasha was safe. Altair pursed his lips and didn't know what to say.

"We are to meet Salah ad-Din," Abbas said with great excitement, looking pointedly at Altair, "what an honour."

"No honour," the young assassin replied bitterly, "no honour as I look upon the man responsible for my father's death."

"And your father's death by effect, Abbas," Malik muttered, watching Abbas' face grow red with rage.

Umar, Altair's father, was betrayed by Abbas' father after a failed assassination attempt on the Sultan some eleven years ago. He was executed on orders of Salah ad-Din, and Abbas' father committed suicide for his guilt. The man stumbled into Altair's own chambers and sobbed a heartfelt apology before driving a dagger through his own heart. Distraught, Alair –then eleven years old- ran to tell Al Mualim, who covered up the whole incident. Abbas hated Altair ever since he discovered the truth of his father's death, and to this day still believed his father simply ran away and was alive somewhere.

Even as children, Abbas made Altair's life a living hell. He tried to kill Altair on several occasions for insinuating his father's cowardly death, though the other boy did no such thing. When Altair was thirteen or so, he had a horrible prank played on him. Malik was now ashamed to admit that he was part of the ploy.

They led Altair to the fortress kitchen, where a rickety cupboard provided the perfect hiding spot for the ugliest of tricks. All together, six novices in total, they bullied and harassed Altair to open the thing. They called him bastard child, they mocked his light skin and half-Franj blood. Distressed and overcome with unfounded bravery, the boy reached a trembling hand to the rusted latch… He only had to open the cupboard slightly to see its horrible contents, and immediately slammed the thing shut. Unfortunately, that was all it took. As soon as he released the latch, the cupboard fell wide open and swarms of angry buzzing wasps darted out into the sunlight and stung him all over. Screaming, Altair tried to swat them away, but they flew up the loose sleeves of his tunic and stung him on the chest and belly. Some trapped themselves in his hood and stung him in the neck.

The novices, Abbas and Malik and a few others, laughed until tears of mirth dripped from their eyes. They slapped their knees and pointed and laughed while the other boy writhed in unbearable pain on the kitchen floor. Even the kitchen servants and cooks came out to watch, and they too laughed. They never liked the boy, either. He was too quiet, too capable, too different. Then, one by one, they all grew bored at watching Altair cry, and they drifted away to cook or to play hide and seek. Eventually, the buzzers disappeared too.

They left him there like that.

And that was how Nasir came across him, Altair unconscious from the wasps' poison and swollen all over. Immediately, he scooped him up and carried him directly to the infirmary. When the Grand Master discovered this heinous act of betrayal on the part of his own young novices, he was enraged. On his orders, Altair was taken to Al Mualim's own chambers, where he treated the boy himself. He bathed Altair's swollen face with spirits and forced spoonfuls of ginger tea between his lips. The servants told the truth soon enough, and Malik, Abass, and the other novices involved received sixty-seven lashes each on their backs, one strike of the whip for each barb removed from Altair's body.

Slowly, Altair healed. After two weeks, the ugly scabs fell off and he was finally able to open his eyes again. He emerged out of the Grand Master's rooms to return to his training. But nothing would ever be the same. He was not satisfied with Abbas and Malik's forced apologies, and forever distanced himself from the others.

In Aasha, he had found a stranger-companion. She was not afraid of him, nor did she try to force his admiration. In the mornings when he scooped the filth from the stables or filled basins for wash, he saw her climbing up the great banyan tree in the courtyard like a cat. Eventually she stopped doing it, but Altair still looked to the tree every morning and wondered if she was there between its glossy leaves. He felt that if she had been a boy, perhaps they could have made friends. Maybe they could have had that sort of easy friendship Altair had always wanted, unattached but ever trustful and aware of the other's presence. But Aasha was a girl, and that in itself made everything so much more confusing.

When they came of age, Malik had made a big issue of forcing Altair to visit Masyaf's concubines. The other novice was desperate to see Altair as a man, with his own urges and instincts that tore him away from the cold rationality he forced on his world. But Altair refused, preferring to relieve himself with his own hand. Of course, he had thoughts. Like most other novices, his thoughts were first dominated by beautiful Leyla, with her swaying hips and full lips. In his mind, Altair would conjure up lewd images of the girl beneath him, squealing and moaning as he drove himself into her. Slowly, as he matured in his thoughts, his preferences changed. Leyla's antics no longer interested him, and her flirtatious manner turned him off. And then he was left alone and afraid, unknowing of what was to come next.

He worked up the courage to take one pretty girl named Karin on a novice level mission, but was too shy to ask her in person. He got Kadar to deliver a note to the courtesan, hoping she would accept. With Kadar being Malik's brother, Altair should have known nothing was going to go as planned. The dumb boy took the note and ran off to Aasha, and that was that. When he returned from Damascus, Kadar apologized profusely for his mistake, but Altair couldn't bring himself to be angry for it.

* * *

Aasha had a dream.

In the dream, two armies faced each other on opposite sides of a large open field. She saw it from a bird's perspective, circling over the scene. The masses of soldiers completely blackened the pristine desert sands, their colourful banners fluttering in the morning breeze. On one side she saw the iconic red cross on white of the Templars, and also flags of black with white crosses. By heart, she knew these were the warriors of Franj. On the other side of the field stood the great houses of Islam, bright banners of yellows, greens and whites, and blacks waving.

There was utter silence as the men on both sides studied the faces of their enemies- they were surely close enough to. Then, on some unspoken command, the two armies gave a great roar and came together to clash like a clap of thunder. The earth shook under their feet, the Franj shouting the name of their Christian God while the Muslims called upon Allah's blessings.

When she woke, she was deathly afraid. She did not completely understand what she'd just seen, and Imad was not near. It had been many days since she'd finally decided to relay the fateful message back to Masyaf, having finally uncovered the fortress' intentions. For the first time, she received no reply back.

Neither Imad nor Jacques could anticipate the extent of which she knew, Aasha was sure. This in itself made her both relieved and uneasy- because she did not want either of them to perish should the fortress be attacked. Immediately after she recovered from that blow to the head, Imad had wrenched her aside and apologized for having hit her. She imagined it was more out of fear that she would take revenge than out of any genuine remorse.

"I could not stop myself- a weapon is a weapon," he squeezed her hand between his, looking truly upset, "I responded instinctively."

"I am alright," she reassured him, "I thought… I thought you meant to kill him…"

Her words formed heavy creases on Imad's brow, the man shaking his head a definitive no. "…I would never hurt that man, but sometimes I fear I do so involuntarily. Come, you deserve an explanation for what you saw."

When Imad was a young man and working as a spy for the Templars, he was charged with teaching Arabic to a certain young squire. At first he was impatient with the fair boy, all lanky limbs and fearful eyes, but eventually he became quite fond of him. He saw in the squire the possibility of manipulation, as the boy seemed to respect him highly. It wasn't long before the squire became a man, and this caused the whole of Imad's world to change.

"I cannot say what it is that drew me to him," he explained to Aasha, now middle aged and in his prime, "maybe I was just young and stupid. But hearing him speak Allah's tongue stirred up a fire in my loins."

The gypsy flushed, squirming in her seat. She'd heard young novices joke about this in the past, and it had not bothered her. But here it did, because this was no joke. This was true anguish and suffering. The other man did notice her discomfort, and sighed. "This is what I had expected. I will stop here if you'd like."

"No," she exclaimed, "please go on, I am sorry."

Imad regarded her carefully, trying to determine to what extent she must be utterly disgusted with him. Finally he saw fit to continue, "he became a man, and all of him transformed into a magnificent piece of art. He was like a blossom in full bloom, begging to be plucked. When he was finally knighted, I could wait no longer. I took him to my bed."

A look of horror settled upon Aasha's face, and Imad was quick to add that Jacques, as of then Messire de Sonnac, had wanted it just as he did. They'd danced around each other for years, and for the first time they had finally met. And yet she was so confused. How could a man take another to his bed? To her, it was not right for a man to lie with another man as he would with a woman. What was the point of that? The Quran, their sacred text, condemned it. If Imad slept with another man, was he still a man?

Imad saw her expression, and knew she was disgusted. Of course- so were they themselves, but they could not help it. On many occasions in secret they slept in the same bed, many times they touched their lips together and held each other. But Jacques was adamant; that was as far as he could ever go in the name of companionship. No kisses anywhere else- that was obvious sodomy. The knight could not even refer to that part of him that was impure, speaking of it as "the base of the spine", always making Imad chortle with laughter. And he could never give himself to Imad, it was unthinkable, for that would tear him forever from God and cast his soul to hell.

Having lived a life of secrecy and shame for this exact reason, Imad found it a personal mission to make Aasha _understand_. Because it would help himself understand, and he'd spent too long in this limbo of confusion. What he needed now was validation, and somehow it would mean something to him to hear it from this young girl.

"Is there someone you love in Masyaf?" he asked her, rubbing his face with his hands and trying desperately to appeal to her emotions, "perhaps a young man?"

And she didn't know. Her thoughts immediately fled to Altair, but that was not right- Altair could not care for her the way she could hope. Grudgingly, she contemplated Malik, and yes- she was attracted to him. But their relationship came nowhere close in comparison to that of Imad and Jacques. She was disappointed for herself that she had no such love in her life that could be of any comparison.

"Not love," she decided at last, feeling disillusioned, "but I care for him."

Imad sat up straight, his two hands grasping at the empty air, "so take the care you feel for this man and multiply it by a hundred, a thousand, and maybe you will come to understand how I feel for Jacques de Sonnac."

Aasha could not even comprehend such large numbers. Her mouth hung open with the realization that the two men were not doing these… these… acts for pleasure's sake. Could they really love each other as a man could a woman? She'd never heard of it. So she asked Imad if he loved Jacques, and watched him fall apart.

To the innocent question, Imad made a sound like a dying man. "I wish we could drop our swords and strip down the cursed colors separating us- and then we would run away."

And to a confession like that, Aasha had no words to counter. Surely such a strong and pure love could not be condemned- and _Allah, why?_ They were not harming anyone by loving each other, so why did they have to embrace in secret and kiss in the dark?

* * *

Merely two days after, the message finally came from Masyaf. Holding the note over a candle in the night, Aasha watched Imad sleep ignorant in his bed. She made the natural decision that she could not allow he or his lover to perish in the inevitable siege.

Seven times the sun rose and fell until the knights arrived, along with their Grand Master Gerard de Ridefort. They were a sight to behold, colourful banners rising over the pale desert sands. Aasha counted two files of ten in total; twenty of the Crusaders' best knights and countless more soldiers, here to collect the supplies that were amassed in this fortress for fear of raid elsewhere. De Ridefort inspected the small fort and approved of its state, asking his officers about their weapons stores. The knights were to stay and prepare to spearhead the attack against Salah ad-Din's army as they marched on Jerusalem in the summer, taking them from the rear. Word already spread that Salah ad-Din was dangerously close. In the meantime, de Ridefort talked openly about laying siege to Masyaf before Salah ad-Din could act on Jerusalem.

Even with the tense atmosphere, a feast was called in de Ridefort's honour. Aasha rushed off to the cookhouse where she and the other servants and cooks prepared the dinner. The stone walled kitchen had shadows dancing all over their walls, a dizzying sight when combined with the heady smell of spice. For the first time since she'd arrived, the Franj seemed to be truly _cooking_. With the baking ovens being fired up, they cut the lamb meat and soaked it in a marinade of olive oil, garlic, mint, and some other herbs Aasha had never seen before. They smelled very odd.

"From the Provencal," one of the cooks informed her, "only used in small amounts for events and festivities." They put the roasts and ribs in the marinade and set the shoulders of the beasts in big iron pots to stew. They brought out the goat cheese, baked fresh bread, and rolled out barrels of ale for the soldiers and bottles of wine for the knights. Aasha thought perhaps she could poison the food, but then decided against it. She could not act without Masyaf`s direct orders.

She was not able to join the feast of course, but took some bread and a bit of spiced wine for herself. While the hunks of lamb were being finished, one of the Franj cooks poured in a giant bucket of cubed sweetmeats for flavouring. Imad El-Amin was furious when he saw this, and yelled in Frankish at the cook. The cook yelled back in Frankish.

"Don't eat the lamb," Imad growled at her when all was over and done with, "tell the others, too."

_Oh._ Grudgingly, Aasha informed the other slaves and servants, who were already salivating at the thought of meat, that they were not to eat it. The cubes of cured meats were from a pig, and therefore the dish was impure.

She swept the floor and poured wine as the night dragged on and the men delighted themselves in de Ridefort's arrival. The man himself was well built but stank strongly. In fact, all the Franj men stank from not bathing. Aasha could not have eaten anything more even if she wanted to- the nausea was building in her throat.

* * *

In the morning, she saw a familiar form perched curiously on top of the fortress' wall. He was looking right at her as she came out to clear the chamberpots.

She gestured violently for him to come down, unable to believe any assassin would reveal himself like so. He was far enough away that he was mainly unnoticed, but it would only be a matter of time. As quickly as he had come, the assassin was gone, clambering nimbly across the gaps in the bricks and over to the other side.

Aasha knew what this meant. She also knew she would have very little time to act if she wanted to save Jacques and Imad from the unavoidable slaughter. And how could she do so if the knight was loyal to his Crusade, and the Saracen was loyal to the knight? How could she possibly do anything for them without completely jeopardizing her own duty?

Her orders were as follows: before the night was out, she was to cut off lines of communication in the fortress. This meant rounding up the squires and servants to the knights and locking them away or otherwise separating them from their masters. Carrier pigeons had to be disposed of. If possible, she was to make herself easily available during the siege so the brotherhood could quickly locate and retrieve her. And then in the wee hours of the morning, the assassins would cause a disturbance nearby, luring out a few sleepy knights to deal with the issue. Then Salah ad-Din's men would charge them, and the knights, divided by miscommunication and confusion, would fall to his blade.

She could not risk revealing their plans, but she could set out an escape route for them. They could take it if they were willing, but she would not be able to lead them there. She had no doubt that Jacques would no sooner slay her where she stood than betray his Crusade.

Her experience at the fortress had opened her eyes. The Franj were fighting in the name of their God, just like how the Saracens died for Allah. Seeing the unlikely relationship between Jacques de Sonnac and Imad El-Amin had turned her perception of the Templar Knights on its head. And now she couldn't say which side was the more righteous one- since childhood, she'd been fed stories of the Crusaders' brutality. But if Salah ad-Din had thoughts to slay Jacques without so much as a negotiation, it was hard to tell the two groups apart.

She spent the whole day in Jacques' study, listening to him tell her of his hometown. Once in a while another knight would enter and deliver information or demand for it, and she would fall silent. Jacques was a patient man, and was very organized. He dealt with all issues presented to him in a very orderly and practiced fashion. Then as soon as they were alone, their conversation would resume. The man's disposition towards her did not change much, just that he was more guarded in his words and kept his lips sealed tight when it came to matters of the war. But it was already too late; he had already unknowingly said too much, setting forth an unstoppable chain of events that would lead to the fortress' ruin the very next morning. It hurt Aasha to know she was at the centre of all of this, that it was because of her that Jacques may lose his life. And then what of Imad? Never had she stayed and lived with her targets for such a length of time before, and never had she felt such an attachment.

Knowing that she would likely not have the chance again, she interrupted the knight's flowing monologue to ask him if he loved Imad. The fair haired man fell silent, looking very much ashamed. "I love him as I do all of humanity," he paused then, looking sheepish, "what in the God's name did he tell you?"

Not wanting to embarrass the knight further, Aasha condensed their conversation into a single phrase, "that… that he loved you very much."

"Oh," Jacques said simply, as if surprised. "Oh." He looked down at his flowing handwriting for a little while, and then his brows furrowed. "You must never tell anyone what you have told me, or of anything we are speaking of right now," he looked genuinely afraid.

Aasha agreed to not let loose their secret liaison, and watched Jacques flinch at the term. She quickly changed the subject, "do you care for him, then?"

Sadness came over the knight's blue eyes, "when it was revealed he was leaking intelligence out to Salah ad-Din, he was sentenced to a traitor's death. I voted to spare him, and when my voice went unheard I leapt before the executioner's blade as it descended." Here Jacques had to pause, his right hand dropping the quill and reaching to clutch at his right shoulder, "the injury I sustained denied me the honour of battle. It saved his life, however, and now he is bound to our cause by honour and his own guilt- or so we hope. The price I paid was great; now I work the ledgers, and I will live and die with a quill in my hand."

"O-oh."

"And now perhaps I might never go to Paradise."

She cringed, her eyes growing wet despite herself. He could deny it if he liked, but Aasha had never seen devotion nearing this. The childish attributes she'd pinned to the ideas of love and partnership were shattered by its morbid reality. Moved, she dropped to her knees by the seated knight and took his hand in hers. With her cheeks shining with tears, she kissed the back of his hand.

"Allah's blessing be with you both," she crooned to him, "and may your God be kind."

"May He be kind indeed," the knight murmured, freeing his hand gently and turning back to his work without another word. He had long since understood that the price he paid for Imad's affections was great, but could no longer bring himself to care. If God was loving and kind, why would he separate them so? His hand burned where the slave girl kissed it, and he quickly found it hard to breathe.

* * *

Having not seen him for months, to say Aasha was surprised when Altair dropped into her master's chambers from the window would be an understatement. His entrance was messy, physically knocking into her as he barrelled into the room. He covered her mouth before she could cry out in surprise, and held her until the surprise wore off. He held her for longer than was necessary, and Aasha returned his embrace. She missed him dearly, missed all her assassin brothers and spy sisters. But she did draw away from him first, feeling that it was no longer proper to let him touch her so.

Altair's embrace wasn't at all like Malik's, and it was the feel of the latter's arms that she remembered. While Altair was all hard muscle and stiff chest, Malik allowed himself to melt into her. She felt more at ease with Malik than she did with Altair, though she felt no doubt that the man had no intentions to harm her.

"I am here to ensure that all is done and ready," the assassin said in his blunt manner, "are you safe?"

"Yes, I am safe," Aasha replied quickly, smoothing her mess of hair. Servant women were permitted to wear caps, but slaves were not of a high enough social standing to cover their heads. Suddenly in Altair's presence, she cared about her appearance again. "And I will ensure the servants and slaves are locked away for the night," she showed Altair the key she pickpocketed from a Franj officer, "and also the squires."

"Good," he nodded, "I have done you a favour and poisoned the pigeons' feed. If all goes to plan, we attack just before the sun rises. The knights will be disoriented then."

"Is Salah ad-Din with you?"

"Yes," Altair's lips were set in a tight line, "he is with us."

"Do you think…" she bit her bottom lip, and Altair waited patiently- "do you think he would allow a negotiation?"

Golden eyes looked back at her, almost glowing by the light of the moon. The assassin gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head in the negative. "A negotiation is pointless; he wants the knights dead." His sharp senses picked up the footsteps along the hall before she did, and he struggled to clamber out the window. Imad opened the door to his chambers just as Altair disappeared in a flash of red and white. Imad looked to the open window, and then at Aasha. He seemed to draw a conclusion in his mind.

"I am going to die," he said numbly, "aren't I? Your brothers meant to kill me all along for my involvement with the Templars."

His conclusion was misguided; she was not sent to kill him, and he was not going to die. The truth was that if the man cooperated, he would likely be spared Salah ad-Din's sword. But if Aasha could not tell him that. Instead, she nodded sadly, brokenly. "Yes," she whispered, "I'm sorry."

The fortress was blanketed with silence at this hour, most knights and soldiers already asleep. It made the tension between them all that more tenuous, and Aasha felt her mouth go dry.

"When?" Imad asked her calmly, "when will my soul go to meet Allah?"

"In the morning."

"I see." The Saracen left his chambers, just like that. Aasha felt a sharp panic grip her chest- he could be informing the others, she could have just ruined everything. Yet despite her mind screaming at her to follow and track him, she could not will her legs to move. She was gripped in a moment of absolute fear.

After some time, voices were heard in the halls. The spy prepared herself to jump from the window onto the balconies below and escape if they made for her life. Altair would not be far. The door to Imad's quarters swung open to admit two men: Imad and Jacques, the knight's hair matted with sleep and his expression dazed. The Franj was still wearing his sleep clothes.

"What-" Jacques was about to inquire before he was silenced with his lover's mouth on his. Imad moved with a wild desperation, ripping the clothes from the knight like a starving man peeling an orange. The bewildered Crusader had no chance to complain; he was immediately slammed against a wall, his mouth plundered by the Arab's tongue. Imad's hands were going everywhere on the knight's upper body and face, but never touching below the waist as was always their custom. Without being asked, Aasha picked up her things and slipped from the room through the door, shutting it softly behind her. Bitter joy surged in her chest with the knowledge that Imad and his knight would at least spend one more night together.

She hoped that one day she would experience affection like that for someone else, that in return she would be loved so passionately like how Imad loved Jacques. What would it feel like to have someone's mouth over hers like that? She touched her lips with cold fingers, shutting her eyes. Once she was back in Masyaf, she promised herself, she would find out. She was too young to die and had yet begun to live.

Her legs stiff like twigs, she began the long walk to the servants' quarters. Once there, her hands were shaking. She locked each door from the outside, turning the officer's key slowly and gently in the chain lock's keyhole to avoid making noise. Then she did the same for the slaves and squires, and strung the key onto her father's bead necklace. They would be freed by Salah ad-Din himself once the fortress fell to him.

_By Allah,_ she thought when all was done, _I've just sentenced a company of men to death._

* * *

_End of chapter 7._

* * *

Because Altair can't be so skilled and perfect as he is in the game without making a few enemies. I swear my heart broke when I wrote that.

I make a big deal of Masyaf's concubines because_ damn_, when I first found that garden behind the fortress filled with all those lovely ladies, I couldn't stop laughing! I made Altair bump into all of them and push them down hills. :)

Aside from the Templar Knights, there were also the Knights of the Hospitaller, and the Teutonic Knights still in the Holy Land at this time. Together they made up the 'houses of the Franj', according to the Muslims. Aasha's vision/dream is indeed a picture from the future, and sorry if it's kind of vague now- she doesn't know enough to understand it. Look out for the same scene in a later chapter.

With respect to updates, I must let you all know that** I am leaving on a military exercise in two weeks**. Perhaps I can get one more update out before then, but as of July 15 you can expect a **one-to-two month hiatus for the fic. **Not to sound morbid, but due to the nature of the operation, if I don't post again in two months then... the fic is probably discontinued. Permanently. I'm letting you all know now in case the worst happens.

**Review if you've read, please.** I'd love to hear your feedback, and please wish me luck! C:


	8. Image 236: Salah ad Din

To see Salah ad-Din, the maker of legends and bringer of the _jihad_, appear out of thin air at Masyaf's gates with his squad of men was like something out of a dream. The Sultan was dressed in nobleman's clothing consisting of a cuirass covered by fine spun linen. On his head rested a peaked helmet wrapped in a silk turban. A plain looking scimitar hung from his waist, and even his war horse was modestly clad. The men following him dressed much the same, and their horses pulling along a great cart of chests and sacks that could easily be mistaken for wares. He was not quite the young man he was when he rose to gain power of Egypt, but still his soul's youth flared in his eyes and he held himself with a sense of quiet authority. This was the kind of man that every other man wished to please.

They'd disguised themselves as passing merchants, the ornate chests and sacks actually containing their shields, weapons, and armour.

Despite all his rhetoric, Salah ad-Din refused to enter Masyaf's gates, instead calling the assassins to meet him. It was an arrogant yet carefully calculated move. Thus the Grand Master and his four trusted assassins made their way to Masyaf's gates to meet the Sultan. Al Mualim greeted Salah ad-Din graciously, the two men exchanging _salaams_.

"I have set up a camp of ten thousand men many miles from here," Salah ad-Din said to Al Mualim, "and the knights are indeed weary of me. It would benefit me greatly to remove the Templar threat from this area." It was clear that he was uneasy with the idea of temporarily siding with the assassins, but he had no choice.

"We desire the same," Al Mualim's eyes crinkled in a smile, "and I am happy to lend you my best men to serve you. We are honoured to fight by your side."

"I would trust no other man but myself to lead such a siege, and could bring none but my best to compare with your assassins." The bringer of the jihad looked to the four assassins standing humbly like scholars behind the Grand Master, their bodies strapped with weapons of all sorts. He examined their build and deemed them healthy and strong. His eyes roamed over their well-groomed horses, inspecting them for their strength and breed. When at last he was satisfied, his dark eyes turned to meet those of Al Mualim, "I hope you know that the consequences will be great if your men act out of turn."

Malik sucked in a quick breath- how dare he? He waited to see if Al Mualim would take the insinuated insult. He heard the old man chuckle, "I could say much the same of your men, Sultan."

Said men were regarding the four assassins with a mix of admiration and hatred. Salah ad-Din gave a short laugh, "forgive me, Grand Master. Come then, assassins." He gave a great tug on his horse's reigns, and the animal's hooves clapped the ground.

Without question, they followed. Salah ad-Din's group of twelve men in total set out on the short road to the Templar fortress with the sun falling fast over the horizon. "We will come as close as we can to the fort," he explained his strategy to his men and the group of assassins, "once we are close enough, we wait until the opportune time, at which we will strike out at the Franj."

Salah ad-Din's men gave a shout of approval, obviously completely entranced by their leader. "Allah will show us the way," they cheered.

As their horses carried them slowly towards their destination, Altair remembered Aasha's inquiry. He cleared his throat, "will we kill all of them?"

He was the first assassin to speak out after half a candlemark had passed, with Salah ad-Din exchanging words only with his own men. Malik was surprised- it was unlike Altair to be curious.

"Ah," the Sultan seemed as if he'd forgotten the assassins were there, "why do you ask, my boy?"

Altair grit his teeth; Salah ad-Din ordered his father's death. He hated the man with a fire. He had no right to refer to Altair so affectionately. "I ask because I thought it was in your method to be kind, Sultan."

The comment was barbed, and made the Muslim men give pause to regard Altair with uneasiness. But Salah ad-Din did not seem fazed, and replied smoothly, "you have heard true. What can be solved by tact should not be resolved by bloodshed. I could offer a negotiation, but it is unlikely that the Franj would consider such a thing.,.. especially when we are laying siege to them."

"We are outnumbered," Altair countered, "there are at least thirty knights in that fortress, and twice that many soldiers. More could be on the way at any moment." He had been sceptical to begin with, and it hadn't changed. "You of all people would know not to challenge the knights on such odds. To do so would be… suicide."

"You assassins think too simply," Salah ad-Din said lightly, physically brushing off the comment with a flick of his hand, "you think in terms of one and two, and you do not understand warfare. Geography, strategy, leadership, preparation… all of these are factors determining a battle's success."

The assassin fell silent, but his point was well made. All the men now looked uneasy, looking anywhere but at each other. Eventually they all trained their gazes at the Sultan's back as he rode on steadily.

It was common knowledge that if fifteen of Allah's Faithful met a party of five knights in an open field, or even three, that none would live to tell the tale. All battle tactics involving the knights were based after such a model. Of course, the assassins were not ordinary soldiers, Salah ad-Din was no ordinary leader, and they had the element of surprise on their side. But to what extent would this matter?

* * *

_"You killed my father."_

The Sultan started, jolted out of his nap. His eyes searched but met no counterpart. A hooded man was standing right over him. Immediately Salah ad-Din twisted for his dagger and feared the worst: that his men were dead. But a cursory look around their temporary camp assured him that all was well. Even in the dark, vague outlines of color and moving bodies could be seen. Instead of strewn about the ground like he'd feared, his men were sharing a dish of dried figs and salted pistachios with the assassins sitting some distance away. He turned his attention back to Altair, "did I?"

"You did. You sentenced him to be executed."

Salah ad-Din eyed him wearily, recognition spreading slowly upon his features, "…I think you must be son of Umar Ibn-La'ahad."

"You have no right to speak his name."

"He tried to assassinate me in my sleep," Salah ad-Din murmured, "I had no choice."

Altair snarled, "he did not mean to hurt you! He meant only to leave a message."

Salah ad-Din sat up, pushing the assassin back a step or so, "he killed one of my men in his haste to leave."

"Only because that man threatened his life. And let us not forget that it was you who laid siege to Masyaf, you and your men." Before the other man could reply, Altair made a fist with his hand-

…and promptly released it, "I shall not hurt you, and you have only my Master to thank for my mercy."

Altair turned and crept back to where the assassins were breaking bread with the Muslim soldiers. They'd seen the exchange and heard the heated words he'd thrown at their leader, and looked ready to rip the flesh from his bones.

"Peace, my friends," Malik tried to cool the tense atmosphere, "my brother Altair is a snake with no venom. His bite stings, but that is all he is good for."

"Yes," Abbas agreed, more out of spite for Altair than anything else, "he is right. Do not listen to a word he says."

The fourth assassin, Rauf, watched silently as the scene unfolded before his eyes. "Let us not speak of this," he sighed, catching Altair's thankful gaze, "I want to hear more about your conquests against the Franj infidels."

Delighted, the soldiers momentarily forgot the insolence shown by Altair and launched into rolling stories about raids they'd carried out against the Franj, the battles they'd won, and so on.

"I fight for Salah ad-Din because I believe he is the messiah," one soldier boasted, "I will find glory in dying for Allah. We will take back Jerusalem at all costs."

"You understand," said Abbas arrogantly, "that you will have to draw forth the Franj? And that as long as there is a single soul standing, they will not allow Jerusalem to be taken from them?" _How do you hope to win?_

"I imagine the Sultan is well aware of that," the same soldier replied, "but we have made many alliances and our forces are strong."

Remembering that man he and Aasha met on their first mission together many years ago, Altair interrupted the soldier's rambling praise to ask if he'd heard of Ra'id Al-Dosari.

The man's eyes lit up, "yes! I've met him once. Nervousness is his every expression, but he is a formidable diplomat when the time calls. Under his counsel, he was able to convince Cairo's squabbling clans to come together and join Salah ad-Din's force."

Speaking of Salah ad-Din, said man was approaching their group. The Saracen soldiers bowed their heads in respect and raised their fists to their right breast.

Salah ad-Din returned the salute, "Indeed, our alliances give us the advantage of tact. As we will see very shortly, the Franj do not like to come forth from behind the guarded walls of a fortress. It will take some work and planning to draw them out. And when their fortress is the Holy City itself, our efforts must be quadrupled."

His soldiers hung on his every word, their remarkable loyalty to Salah ad-Din utterly unshakeable. It was obvious to the assassins that these men would not give a moment's hesitation to die for their fearless leader. The Sultan continued, "for now, the infidel fortress is small and in our sights. With Allah's blessing, it is time to strike."

* * *

"Lend me your map, assassin," Salah ad-Din reached out a gloved hand to Malik, who immediately handed over his map of the area. Their horses snorted under them. For Malik, to be in the man's presence was a great honour. The Sultan was now clad in his battle wear, but as a mamluk soldier and not a commander. On top of the full body chain suit he demanded all his men wear, Salah ad-Din wore a plain red tunic reinforced with a body plate of reinforced steel and tightly wrung reeds. A pastel blue sash wound around his waist and belt, from which hung his scimitar. His mail armour hiding his neck and even some of his chin, it would be difficult for any Franj or Muslim to recognize the Sultan. When he brought up his shield, he was indistinguishable from the drones of Mamluks the Franj met at each scuffle. The rest of his men were made mounted cavalry, lightly clad in much the same way.

Salah ad-Din did not consider the use of archers, not for these numbers. The knights often wore heavy felt and so dense a chain of mail under their most basic armour that arrows did little harm. The Muslims preferred lighter protection that allowed greater mobility. This was an advantage against common Franj footsoldiers, who moved slowly due to their plate armour. The knights were another question altogether, for they seemed to be able to maneuver their horses and weapons in remarkably tight spaces in ways that should not be possible. Their secrets of protection used to be a mystery as well. Once a Saracen commander jumped a hedge and struck an unarmoured knight with his lance. The knight dropped his helmet and shield, but was miraculously unharmed. A rip in his surcoat revealed a hauberk underneath, typical European wear. Salah ad-Din knew this now, but in the past he'd just been _shocked_to hear of such a thing. The knight called for his squire to retrieve his gear and just sat there waiting. He touched eyes with the Arab commander's, and dared him to slay him while defenseless. The Muslim commander told the Sultan that he waited until the Franj was fully armed before raising his scimitar in attack.

Knowing how much armour made a difference in the game of battle, Salah ad-Din and his men tried to offer the assassins chainmail, perhaps some light plates for the chest and back. But all four men refused, unafraid to go to battle in nothing but linen and leather.

The sky was till dark, but the faintest of light was visible now. The Sultan studied the map for a few moments, and turned to his assassins.

"The Franj will recognize my men, and when they see my face they will close themselves in their fortress. When the gates open, they will be in hordes and organized. We would surely perish. Thus, it will be your role to draw them out. They will be sleepy and unprepared, thinking the elimination of four assassins to be an easy task." He motioned to the direction of the fort, "If you kill their guards, they will want to exact revenge. If all goes as planned, they open their gates with little preparation. If Allah will bless us, my men will strike them down, and if enough of them are drawn into the fight, we will take the fortress before they discover what has befallen them."

"Sultan," one of his officers cleared his throat, "the reinforcements are on their way."

"Reinforcements?" Malik sat up straight in his saddle, "you never mentioned reinforcements."

Salah ad-Din looked apologetic. "Your assassin friend is right; it would be suicide to charge at them with sixteen men and hope to come out alive. Franj soldiers, we can dispatch easily. Knights, even if unprepared and ambushed, are too well trained."

After a tense moment of silence, Abbas spoke up, "how many men have you prepared?"

"One hundred and twenty," came the answer, "they are on the march as we speak, but will not arrive until we are deep in the fort. I cannot risk them be sighted while they wait. We must hold the Franj there until they arrive, and then we will storm the fort in earnest."

"Then you should have just taken your own men," Altair ground out angrily, "we should not have come."

"Hush," said Malik, "we have a spy in the walls. We have business here."

Salah ad-Din shifted only slightly, "I sent for the men last night." He looked to Altair, "if the Franj surrender, I will keep them prisoner and spare their lives."

Altair said nothing. The Franj could all die, as far as he was concerned. He wondered if the Sultan was trying to apologize in his own way by heeding Altair's advice.

Salah ad-Din left the unsaid to be unknown. If any knights surrendered, the Templar code was to never return for an imprisoned brother. Thus, they could not be used for barter; they would have to die in any case. And as for the reinforcements… He had always known the odds were not with them, as facing the Knights Templar with less than a five to one advantage was idiotic. However, he knew Al Mualim would not send his men out to fight with his army as common soldiers, and he needed the assassins by his side. He could have sent his own men to cause a diversion, but he also wanted the Templars to become well acquainted with the assassins as aggressors. If the Templars could formally recognize the assassins as their enemies, then Salah ad-Din needed not waste resources to rid them from the Holy Land himself. He'd laid siege to Masyaf in the past and failed; perhaps the Franj would have better luck.

Of course, he did not know that the Franj were in fact prepared to lay siege to Masyaf themselves. The assassins were in fact using the Sultan to be rid of the threat to their safety. It was under these misguided pretences that Salah ad-Din came to work together with the Assassin Order.

"And what is this you said about a spy?"

"We have a spy in the fortress," Malik explained, "we will have to retrieve her during the attack."

"_Her?_" Salah ad-Din chuckled, "you assassins never fail to surprise me. One of you may go to retrieve this spy. I want the rest by my side. Decide this among yourselves."

Malik was conflicted over his desire to find Aasha and his dream of fighting beside Salah ad-Din. When Altair at last volunteered, he felt a resigned relief. Though he felt that in a way he had betrayed her, at least he trusted Altair to keep her safe. It did not surprise him that Altair would not want to fight with Salah ad-Din.

The men soothed their horses, willing them to be silent as they snuck closer to the Templar fort. Word had reached them that Gerard de Ridefort, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, was residing in the small fortress at this moment. If they could take the fortress and dispose of de Ridefort, it would mean a turn in the tides of war. In de Ridefort's absence, Jerusalem's knights would be in disarray, leaving the city ready to be seized during the battle season.

Before the assassins split from the group, Salah ad-Din issued one more order. "Do not touch the women, the children, and the young men incapable of fighting. If a fighting man puts down his weapon in surrender, you are to spare him."

The four assassins nodded in understanding- so the rumours were true; Salah ad-Din was truly a compassionate being. Having received their orders, the assassins moved into position on the far edge of the fortress, close enough that they could see the men standing guard at its gates. These men were obviously incompetent and hastily trained foot soldiers, for they looked like they were sleeping standing up. It was possible that the assassins were heard, but the hooves of a few horses moving along in the early morning hardly raised any concern to the Franj soldiers.

From where Salah ad-Din and his men waited in the shadows, two stones were rubbed together sharply to create a bright spark.

"The signal," Abbas whispered, and without further ado the four assassins charged forth across the dune of sand towards the fortress, shouting and hollering like madmen. It was not at all like the silent approach they were used to, but if that was what was necessary to draw the Franj out, so be it.

The four guards rushed to unsheathe their swords, and fought very poorly against the skilled assassins. Despite this, the assassins downplayed their experience and dragged out the fight, blocking the guards' onslaughts and making a great deal of noise. The Franj manning the sight towers were unsure as to whether or not they should light their fires or sound their bells for such a minor disturbance. Thus, they shouted for help.

"Raiders! Raiders!" They were crying, unable to see the assassins clearly in the dark.

"How many?" Someone yelled back from within the walls, to which the men replied, "four!"

After some time, a few foot soldiers emerged from their tents and, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, stumbled towards the main gates to deal with the team of rogue Saracens. The gates were slowly drawn open and a pitiful team of ten or so men trudged out to meet the assassins. Immediately slicing through the guards they were toying with all this time, the assassins ran their blades into the Franj soldiers and slaughtered them without mercy. At the sound of the struggle, the knights woke from their barracks and from within the building.

The four hooded men, robes now stained with blood, rode into the fortress' court and slayed every man that came at them with raised sword. The confusion was widespread- they had not expected skilled fighters. Finally the war horn was blown, alerting the fortress to the threat. A dozen or so knights emerged from the knights' barracks and a dozen more from within the fort's building, still sleepy and wild-eyed. They were not even clothed properly, some were missing helmets and others had no shields. They could not find their squires, and thus could not fully prepare themselves.

"Drop your weapons, infidel scum," one knight, an officer, called out in heavily accented Arabic, "you are outnumbered. Drop your weapons or face God's might."

Malik sent a throwing knife at the officer, who barely dodged it. The blade embedded itself in the forehead of the knight behind him, who had no helmet and promptly fell off his horse, dead. Manic with anger, the officer called a general charge. Just as they neared the assassins, another group of men hurtled in on war horses, shouting and yelling. Realizing his mistake, the officer cried for his men to fall back, but it was too late. Salah ad-Din's professional cavalry laid waste to the unprepared knights in minutes. The sound of blades clashing and metals screeching was everywhere to be heard, and the fortress erupted into chaos.

* * *

De Ridefort called a stand to for all men, but the order was lost in communication. How had the Saracens come close enough to attack them in their sleep? And more importantly, where were all the squires? His knights were shouting for armour, calling for aid, but their cries went unanswered. Where were the servants and the slaves? Even the cooks were missing. A man was sent to check their quarters, only to find the doors to the servants' halls locked. Only three men possessed the keys to the servants' hall: one was an officer, already slain in the court, the second was the head of the guard, who was fighting against the Saracens at this very moment. The last man who could have access to the key was Jacques de Sonnac, who kept the books. Coincidentally, the knight was nowhere to be found. Other men told him that they'd seen him leave the barracks with a Saracen the past night. A Saracen who once worked for Salah ad-Din.

De Ridefort drew his conclusions.

"Find the traitors, and let God judge them both."

* * *

Aasha could not run fast enough.

"You liar!" Imad shouted, his hands around her neck and throttling her. Her head felt like it was going to burst, and the spy struggled to breathe. Her hands clawed weakly at Imad's forearms, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach- but it was of no use. He was too strong. She made the mistake of trying to find him, to tell him of an escape route out into the desert, the same route she took each morning when she emptied the chamber pots. They could perhaps run away like that.

"I accepted my own death," he spat in her face, "but to lay siege to this fort? Al Mualim has exhausted my loyalty to him. You will die here, you piece of scum!"

"_You_ were responsible for this?" came a shout behind him, the Templar struggling into his base armour and spewing long strings of Frankish that were probably curses. "I'll have your hide, Imad El-Amin, you worthless son of a Saracen whore!"

Imad looked to him with pleading eyes, "I'm sorry, this… I had not…"

"What, you had not thought? You _never_ think! I should have known better…" Jacques did not think to bring his entire load of armour to Imad's chambers, and so faced the possibility of fighting with nothing but the lightest chain. On went the tunic, the terrible red cross of the Templar knights.

It was at that time that Altair decided to come tumbling in through the open window in all his glory, momentarily bewildered by the sight of a lone knight in the room. To her surprise, Aasha's first thought was to mourn that Altair was not Malik. Immediately, Jacques unsheathed the sword that hung at his waist and brought it down on Altair with both hands. The assassin was quick, and dodged the blow while managing to fell the knight with one well-place kick to the knees. He disarmed Jacques, flinging the heavy sword across the room. The stunned Templar put both hands up in a motion of surrender. It was obvious that this was a ploy; the Templar Knights never surrendered. Altair was certain that Jacques would rise again to attack him, but there was nothing he could do. On orders from Salah ad-Din to not harm any unarmed man, Altair turned his attention to Imad, who had turned so that braced Aasha against his chest, one arm locked around her throat and the other wielding a short sword. He was using her as a shield.

Altair gave it no second thought; he unsheathed his hidden blade and lunged towards him, intent on slitting Imad's throat. He trusted his skill to leave Aasha unharmed.

"No!" Jacques gave a shout and toppled into Altair, grappling with him and sending him splayed across the ground. Having not expected the knight to protect Imad, Altair did not see him coming. Even without a weapon, the knight was well trained and worked to pin the assassin against the ground to buy Imad enough time to escape. In the meantime, Aasha regained her composure and pushed Imad's forearm up and over, scrambling out from his grasp.

"Altair!" Aasha cried, "leave him and let's go! Please don't kill him!"

The young woman's panic woke Imad's own sense of urgency. Leaving Aasha to be, he threw himself in the struggle between Altair and Jacques, and plunged his blade down on Altair's left hand. Shouting his agony, the assassin's vision flashed white. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and Aasha's words would not register in the assassin's mind. All he knew was that there was a Templar Knight on him, and that now he was in pain. Altair flexed and arched and finally kneed the Franj in the groin. While the Jacques was distracted and howling, Altair finally found an opening and thrust his blade into the knight's clavicle. His chainmail tore easily at such close range, and immediately Altair was able to fling him away like a limp toy.

Imad came at him with a vengeance, and again Altair was bewildered that this Muslim man was fighting against him, a fellow Saracen! "Your allegiance to the Templars will end you," Altair hissed at the man, piercing jolts of pain searing up his left arm, "why would you betray your own kind?"

Altair was too skilled. He deflected all of Imad's strikes and was agile and dextrous from experience. Being himself rusty from lack of practice, Imad knew he could not win against the assassin. Still, Jacques would not give up. The Templar knight pulled himself to his feet while bleeding profusely, and tried to come at Altair with his fists. Knowing that he would die, Imad came to a quick decision. He dropped his sword and wrapped his arms around Jacques, holding him back from the deadly assassin.

"Take her and leave," the Saracen cried, tears streaking down his bearded face, "leave us be!"

"Release me," Jacques ground out, thrashing in the iron grasp that held him, "if I die here, my place will be in Paradise."

"And what of me?" The Arab cried back, "what of the man who loves you?"

Altair stared at him, unmoving, unsure if he'd heard right. Surely this man could not mean…

His stomach turned. It was disgusting and unnatural to Altair, and the assassin immediately took Aasha's arm and wrenched her towards the window. The spy herself was in tears for whatever reason, and she wasn't cooperating.

"Move," Altair shouted at her, needing to get away from these blasphemous… _animals_, "get out!" He had to leave before his soul was tainted by their presence. Already growing pale with blood loss, Altair's golden eyes took on a manic glint. He yanked Aasha's arm across his back and shouldered all of her weight. With the Franj still shouting after them, he jumped from the window but landed messily due to his injured hand.

Once on the ground he pulled her along, running twice as fast as she was able and towards the court to find his horse. White hot agony was racing up Aasha's legs from the shock of the fall, and after a few moments she felt like she was walking on cotton. Altair nearly had to drag her the rest of the way, since her legs gave out under her. A knight charged at him when he saw the assassin, and Altair quickly withdrew his sword and blocked the man's swing. Then his blade circled upwards in a graceful motion and cut the knight's head clean off. Not having helmets on them made the job much easier. Witnessing the merciless slaughter, Aasha's entire body heaved and she doubled over with the nausea. She nearly fainted when the man's severed head rolled to a stop at her feet.

Altair called his horse to him. He picked Aasha up with both arms and shoved her in the saddle. "Hold on!"

Dazed, Aasha could barely hear Altair's command amidst the din of battle in the fortress' court. Her head was buzzing and there was a high pitched noise in her right ear. She shook her head since her vision seemed to have turned red… But no, there was nothing wrong with her eyes. The dust on the ground was stained crimson, and with every step the fighting men made, their boots squelched in the mix of blood, torn flesh, and spilled entrails. It wasn't so unbearable until she realized that all of this bloodshed was made possible because of _her_. She clung onto Altair's horse and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the soiled ground.

She'd barely gotten her feet into the stirrups when Altair was attacked again by two Franj soldiers. He gave the horse's flank a firm slap, leaving a bloodied hand mark. The beast took off at a gallop, and Aasha was still too dizzy and weak from nausea to grip the saddle between her thighs. She leaned over the horse's neck and gripped its reins tight, holding on with all her strength.

The horse took her straight out of the fortress. It continued to push towards Masyaf, and Aasha had to rein the animal back. "No… back." She could not leave her brothers fighting there.

* * *

Salah ad-Din's men were well rested, well trained, and well armed. On the other hand, the Franj soldiers were disoriented, exhausted from their long march a day earlier, and lacking the bare essentials of defense. The soldiers were being expertly dispatched by professional cavalry and skilled assassins, and were too startled to act. Only the knights fought valiantly despite their losses- they were bearers of the Holy Cross, and they would never give up the fight. Twenty of the thirty had already fallen due to disorganization and miscommunication, an unprecedented loss for the knights. Nonetheless, the remaining ten would fight on to the death.

Franj cavalry officers begged him to call a draw or a retreat, to give up the fort. "It's not worth dying over, Messire!" They looked upon the small but professional Saracen cavalry, protected by distinctive domed helmets that resembled the roofs of their mosques.

"Please," another man called, fighting off one of Salah ad-Din's Saracen soldiers, "call surrender, Messire!"

_Surrender._ The word crawled along slowly through de Ridefort's mind. He squashed it like a bug. "Never," he ground out, stabbing his sword into the Saracen's chest, watching him fall to his feet, "not while God watches."

At that moment, an unimaginable number of Saracen men stormed through the open gates and into the fortress, shouting and hollering. De Ridefort shook his head twice and squinted, truly believing that he must now be dreaming. Turkish light infantry rained arrows on them as they approached, and many men dropped to the floor as the arrows hit their mark. Persians with swords raised high descended upon the startled Franj, yelling brutishly. And they kept coming, waves of them. Forcing his numb mind to work, de Ridefort counted dozens of men joining the carnage. _How could this be possible_? A quick glance up at the watchtowers saw the soldiers there dead and body handing over the ledge, bleeding down the stone tower.

With one well-placed arrow, his own horse was shot underneath him, and the Grand Master of the knights tumbled to the ground.

"Messire!"

"Never will we retreat," he said again with resolution, coming to his feet, "by the Virgin Mary and the Holy Sepulchre, God will safeguard our victory against the Saracen infidels."

"You are mad," the soldier breathed, and rebelliously dropped his sword. He and his fellow men knew Salah ad-Din's reputation as a kind and compassionate leader. It was obvious that the fort was already lost. So why keep fighting? They would appeal to the Sultan's sense of moral integrity, and perhaps they could survive alive. The remaining soldiers saw the display and followed suit, dropping their weapons and raising their hands over their heads in surrender.

De Ridefort was furious, "how dare you? How dare all of you?" His knights kept fighting. They had overcome unimaginable odds before, and they could do it again. They were the best force of knights that ever rode with lance and shield anywhere in the world. With the Lord Jesus Christ on their side, they feared nothing.

"No, no," de Ridefort shook his head, horrified at his worthless cavalry. "The red cross on your breast stands for martyrdom, men! Where is your drive? Your trust in God?" No, he could not surrender this fort to the heathens. Salah ad-Din watched in amusement as de Ridefort called out for reinforcements as if he were on a battlefield.

But every man he had was already on this field, dead or alive. Finally with the gravity of his situation dawning on him, de Ridefort looked into the eyes of Salah ad-Din and saw there a monster in man's skin. The Sultan raised his sword and rode towards de Ridefort on his warhorse, the knight steeled himself for the final encounter. Cutting down Saracens as he went, he side stepped to the left and stabbed a Turkish soldier in the neck, where the plates of his armour joined to reveal skin. However, he could not wrench his blade out in time, and the Turk fell with the knight's sword with him. Unarmed, de Ridefort found the tip of Salah ad-Din's sword at his throat.

"I will call cease to my assault," said the Sultan, "if you surrender." It was clear to him that he had already won. "You may even leave, if you like." His point wasn't to kill de Ridefort in a minor squirmish like this. Salah ad-Din was a man who quite cared for the theatrics. He wanted to properly capture the man on the battlefield, not like this.

"God will smite you for this," he spat at him, the Sultan now only arm's length away, "but you will not take us alive." He did, however, raise up his hand for a cease. Salah ad-Din mirrored his motions, and slowly the fighting drew to a stop. The sounds of blades clashing fell into silence. "State your terms, Saracen."

Salah ad-Din smiled diplomatically, "go. Take your knights and leave. On your honour and on that of your God, swear to never come back to this place."

De Ridefort swallowed incredulously, unbelieving that he was still alive. _Why in God's name would the infidel spare him?_ In his mind, it was God almighty himself staying the Saracen's hand. De Ridefort and his surviving men took the remaining horses from the camp and forced them to gallop, the beasts nearly falling over themselves in their exhaustion. They fled the fort and never looked back. Of the thirty Franj knights who went into battle, only five survived. All that was left: men, women, servants, supplies, fortress, and intelligence, was left to Salah ad-Din.

* * *

End of Chapter 8.

* * *

This gives some insight over how battles were fought in that time. I really cannot stress the effect the Templar Knights had on the Muslim population. In the game, Altair killed knights left and right and it was of no bother. Going against Robert de Sable, he killed something like a dozen of them single handedly. In reality, the knights were so strong and powerful that few dared to challenge them. They are on a completely different league in comparison to the Franj footsoldiers. Even Salah ad-Din admired their bravery and skill.

Salah ad-Din wanted to defeat the Franj in an organized battle, which would make the biggest point across the Muslim population. Thus, it wouldn't make sense for him to slay de Ridefort here. I think such an event could have occured; without logistics and communications, the effectiveness of any combat force is mooted. It's like today's modern day armed forces. The infantrymen talk down to the cooks, but when the cooks stop cooking, that's _it_- complete cease of all operations. Same with signals operators, supply techs, etc.

Anyways, you know you're ready to go on an army exercise when you cut off all your hair. This will be the last update until sometime in August, I'm leaving in five days. Thanks for all the luck and good wishes! :3** Please continue to review and leave your feedback! **

From here on out, the war will play as a bit of a backdrop and Altair/Aasha/Malik will once again be brought to the forefront.


	9. Image 289: Son of Omar

True to his word, Salah ad-Din found Aasha huddled up against the wall of the fortress, nauseous and still unable to stand. Her vision was swimming in and out, and she could barely move her legs. They felt completely numb.

He burst out laughing at the sight of her, "look at you, this little spy I keep hearing about. Good work, pigeon."

_Altair killed all the pigeons. _

Malik, limping only slightly, regarded Aasha's injuries with a sense of self-loathing. In his mind, if he had been there to aid her she would not have been injured. But he also knew that would have meant giving up the chance to fight with Salah ad-Din, and he'd chosen him over her. He had no one to blame for this, not even Altair.

Aasha gave Salah ad-Din the key to the servants' hall. The Sultan took it gratefully, "Is there anything else?"

_Yes._ Yes, there was Jacques and Imad. Thinking of them made the tears well up in her eyes. "I… I have a friend in there. I think he might be hurt."

"No," Altair said simply, "you are not going back for that… that…" His lips pressed tight. Why would Aasha even associate with him in the first place?

Salah ad-Din nodded his agreement, "my men will scour all the rooms, and I will inform you if we find your friend."

But if he were to find Jacques... something told her the Sultan would not be rushing to treat his wounds. Exhaustion finally taking over, Aasha had not the strength to argue. Falling into a dreamless sleep, she murmured to the Sultan, "be merciful."

Masyaf held rites for the fifty eight Saracen soldiers who gave their lives to take the fortress. The assassins lost not a single man, though all were wounded. Al Mualim seemed to accept the Sultan's explanation that the reinforcements were Altair's suggestion. Malik, Altair, Rauf, and Abbas were each raised one rank as a result of their work.

Salah ad-Din wanted his men buried as soon as possible, and so Masyaf's assassins and novices rushed to dig graves to accommodate the dead soldiers. Salah ad-Din made his newly acquired Franj prisoners - soldiers and servants- dig the graves for their comrades and friends who fell before them. Some of the men were so devastated by this act that they willingly jumped into the graves to remain with their comrades in the afterlife. Salah ad-Din was disgusted, "if they were prepared to die, why had they laid down their weapons?"

The Sultan's Holy Man arrived with a book of scripture in the afternoon.

"O Allah, forgive our living and our dead, those who are present among us and those who are absent, our young and our old, our males and our females."

And because the knights had fled and Salah ad-Din could not bear to leave the dead men there to rot, that night he had the Holy Man perform rites on them as well. "It matters not that they believe in a different God," the Sultan said, "Allah will help them find what they need."

"O Allah, whoever You keep alive, keep him alive in Islam, and whoever You cause to die, cause him to die with faith. O Allah, forgive him and have mercy on him, keep him safe and sound and forgive him, honour the place where he settles and make his entrance wide; wash him with water and snow and hail, and cleanse him of sin as a white garment is cleansed of dirt."

When Aasha finally fought up the courage to ask, she was told that some Saracen servants were found cowering in rooms. No mention of a Templar Knight. Imad El-Amin and Jacques de Sonnac had both vanished without a trace.

"O Allah, admit him to Paradise and protect him from the torment of the grave and the torment of Hell-fire; make his grave spacious and fill it with light."

It was done.

* * *

For her work at the Templar fortress, Aasha was promoted one rank. But she could not rise from her bed to drop her head in reverence for Al Mualim- she had sprained her left ankle and broke some toes on her right. When Altair fell from the window, she had not prepared properly for the landing, causing her injuries. She also had a slight concussion from being knocked on the head.

They broke her toes again so they would set, and put her ankle in a split of wood. She was told she would be ready to leave the infirmary in a few weeks, ready to take on missions again whenever she was able.

It seemed Aasha's injuries were more emotional than physical, for the woman spent her days of bedrest in deep thought. She could not stop thinking about Jacques, and what had happened to Imad. Had they both escaped? Or were they killed and buried in the great pits at the fort? She could not shake the thought that they were both alive somewhere. Were they happy? Or had she separated them by accident? Jacques seemed furious at Imad for working with her, and what if he killed him? No, surely Jacques couldn't kill Imad. There was no point of thinking of them now. There was nothing she could do.

Nonetheless, it was all she thought of whenever her mind was not clouded by the roaring pain scorching up her legs. Every small movement she made resulted in a torrent of agony in her ankles and broken toes. Riding out the pain took several minutes and many deep breaths, and always left her with a resonating headache. Sometimes she even vomited from the resulting nausea. They wouldn't give her any hashish oil because it was reserved for those with worse injuries; and she was a woman, anyway.

Now that she was back in Masyaf, it all looked so different. The infirmary was an isolated corner of the fortress that smelled horribly. Even with the windows flung open, the rotten stench of congealed blood, various bodily fluids, and waste clung to the stained sheets. It was not a very pleasant place to die, and Aasha was thankful that she was not in such a predicament. There were men and women here in much worse condition. Some were groaning, and some were resting quietly. One man was obviously dying but denying it. The healers flitted from person to person, and almost always they completely ignored Aasha. She was healing too nicely. Most members of the Order dropped by on a regular basis to get minor wounds treated, and then they would leave. Some, however, came back from missions with more than scratches and bruises. One time the spy watched healers carefully sort and push a man's innards back into the gaping hole in his belly. Having never seen the inside of a man before, Aasha watched with morbid curiosity even though the wet squishing sounds made her ill.

"Does it not hurt?" she called to him, catching his eye.

"N-no," he told her in return, himself in awe. "I don't f-feel anything it, actually… J-just the cut itself h-hu-_haah_!."

One healer stitched the huge gash together while another pressed a cloth wetted with heavy alcohol to his face. The assassin struggled only briefly before the drug took him to a fake, momentary paradise. He only survived for one more day before infection took hold, and in the morning his feverish, dying gasps woke the entire infirmary.

In such an emotionally draining environment, Aasha's only breaks of joy were when she received visitors. Many times Nadia came bearing fruits and flowers picked fresh from the garden, and she would make Aasha smile. They drew linen curtains around Aasha's cot and tried to block out the fact that they were in the presence of dying people.

"Oh my my," Nadia teased her, clucking her tongue, "you look worse than I did when I came back from my first mission!"

Aasha's smile dropped, "that's not funny. You were really hurt." Nadia was inexperienced, and could not get out in time before her target took her. The courtesan joked about how Aasha was more concerned and traumatized by the event than even she was. Nadia always regarded everything with a shockingly aloof point of view, even when it pertained to herself. This was why she became friends with the gypsy girl from the desert, and this was why her work never perturbed her.

"I was not hurt _here_," Nadia pointed to her chest, or rather it was her heart. "And you're not hurt there, either." She made to poke Aasha's chest but instead flicked her nose at the last moment.

The spy giggled, which in turn caused Nadia to giggle. They were still little girls on the inside some days.

"Tell me what ails you," the courtesan prompted, and her breath smelled like the fresh rains of spring. "I don't like seeing you like this."

"So many died because of me," Aasha breathed, "I saw them all. I had not thought… Nadia, I made friends with some of them."

Nadia lowered her eyes, veiling them under a thick layer of sooty eyelashes. "It's a difficult part of our work, but it has to be done. It is like what the assassins do."

"But they don't have to live through the torture of killing someone they actually_ know_."

The courtesan prepared to answer, but instead it was Malik's voice that rang out, "that's not true."

"Oh!" Nadia jumped back, her shoulder knocking Malik on the face. Wincing, the assassin was now bleeding from his nose. Aasha tried, but could not hold in her peals of laughter. Luckily her injuries now only throbbed dully in protest. A few days earlier and she'd be crying with pain at this point. "You startled me," Nadia admonished Malik, "don't do that."

The assassin glared at her, "oh, get out of here!"

He did outrank her, and he was a man. Even though Nadia was here first and her conversation with Aasha was not done, if Malik ordered her to leave, she was obligated to follow his orders. Aasha did not like the way Malik spoke to Nadia, but did not argue the point. Malik was two ranks above her as well. As Nadia gathered her things, Aasha grabbed her hand, "come back again tomorrow."

"I will," promised the courtesan with a wry smile, "don't roll off your cot and land on your face before then!" Of course, she didn't add how she was the one who accidentally nudged Aasha that one time, causing her to flail in her sleep and fall from her cot. Nadia had laughed and laughed until she had to be escorted out of the infirmary for disturbing the others. Aasha's splint had to be re-adjusted for that, but otherwise no damage resulted except for injured pride.

Once she was gone and Malik staunched the blood from his nose, Aasha asked him why he was here. "Are you ill?"

"No," said Malik, "I wanted to see that _you_ were not ill."

Aasha rolled her eyes behind her lids, smiling nonetheless. Her first thought was to say _'I am ill now that you are here'_, but she thought she should at least try to be civil for once. After all, maybe Malik might even return the sentiment. "I assure you I'm not."

"I see that now," he replied lamely, shifting awkwardly on his feet. His hood was pulled back, allowing the spy to see all of his face; a face that looked deeply conflicted. "I only saw a glimpse of you by the fortress, and I suppose I had to convince myself that you were truly alive."

_That was unexpected._ "Oh," she breathed, "thank you for your concern?" She was hesitant, waiting for the jab on her lack of skill that was sure to come…. Except that it didn't. Malik went on to say how he was concerned about her, and how he felt responsible for what injuries she sustained because of his own incompetence.

"What are you talking about?" she had to stop him, frowning.

"Altair wanted to be the one to retrieve you," Malik explained, "I should have been the one to do that."

"That's hardly your fault," Aasha couldn't see what was wrong with that. "How is Altair, by the way?"

The assassin's expression was stony. "What about Altair?"

"He injured his hand while retrieving me."

Still complete blankness on his face. "…I wasn't aware of that. I didn't know he was injured."

"Oh." But she saw Imad drive his blade right into the heart of Altair's palm, heard the man howling in pain. He was most definitely injured. "How are _you_, then?"

"I am well," Malik replied with a wary quirk of the lips, "I had a few bruised ribs, but I'm overall much better than all the men I cut down!" He was desperate to impress her, but it looked like all his boasting was just making her laugh. "What is it?"

Short of breath from the giggling, Aasha pointed to where one of the fortress hounds was sniffing away at the pouch strapped to Malik's waist. This particular dog was loyal to the healers, and was often ridiculed for being dim-witted. However, Aasha knew him to be very clever, since staying here guaranteed he would never starve. Even she herself on occasions was too ill to eat her meals, and had to feed it to the dog. Now he was investigating some curious scent on Malik.

It turned out to be a pouch of pistachios baked in honey and sugar, wrapped in wax paper. "From Damascus," he handed her the sweet smelling treat with eyes averted.

She received his gift with both hands. "Thank you," Aasha smiled so widely that it actually cracked her dry bottom lip. "Oh," she licked it to make the blood go away, horribly embarrassed that Malik had seen this. But when she caught his eye, the man looked hungry- but not for sugar and honey.

* * *

Since Al Mualim's work with Salah ad-Din, the two men seemed to have established a dependence on one another. The Sultan respected the Assassins' skill and loyalty, and began to employ assassins to do jobs for him. Not always assassinations, but he only wanted men.

Al Mualim was concerned that Aasha had become too attached to the Templars. She had learned much of their culture, and could speak a bit of Frankish. The spy was eager to take work, but Al Mualim was no longer sure of her loyalty. His assassin Altair reported that she defended a Templar Knight and did not cooperate with his commands. Aasha herself admitted that she was nearly killed for trying to help a 'friend' escape. _To help someone escape!_ Having been raised as a nomad gypsy with no clear allegiance had caused the girl to be too open minded, and the Grand Master wondered if he'd made the right choice to make her a spy. She was twenty years of age, and it was too late to teach her the art of seduction. It took weeks until he deemed the spy stable enough to be sent out on missions, and even then Al Mualim wanted her to have no contact with Templars.

Altair was also a problem. He detested the Sultan, resented him for ordering the death of his father. Al Mualim saw the fire in the young assassin's eyes, and reluctantly issued his missions. Each day he prayed that the boy would not do something completely idiotic- like kill Salah ad-Din. In both of these cases, emotions overran reason. He wanted his assassins, spies, and courtesans to think rationally at all times, for the greater good of the mission. It seemed there was some fundamental failure in his teaching method, for these young men and women seemed willing to jeopardize the Order for illogical gains. Perhaps the Templars were right to force celibacy on their knights.

When the battle season came at last, Salah ad-Din sent a message to Al Mualim. It was midsummer, and his army would never be more prepared to fight. He now had under his hand over fourty five thousand men, from untrained volunteers to professional cavalry, to fight and die in Allah's name. Finally, after eighty years of oppression and Franj brutality, the Muslims would take back their Holy City. The attack at the fortress had removed many of the Franj's best knights from the field, and the Franj barons and officers were barely on speaking terms. De Ridefort's relations with his peers and with the King turned sour, and said King was still as irresolute as ever. The time had come to throw themselves wholeheartedly into the jihad, for such an opportunity would not rise again. His message asked Al Mualim if his assassins would like to partake in the jihad. Without pause, Al Mualim sent back a missive with a negative. He could not afford to take such sides.

Regardless, when the day came many assassins completing work near Tiberias climbed the highest viewpoints and stopped to watch the battle. Salah ad-Din's army laid siege to the Franj castle in earnest, sending great volleys of arrows that blackened the sky. The sounds of shouts and cries beyond the castle walls indicated to them that their arrows hit their marks. They fired from catapults bundles of fiery hay and stones, and little by little the castle crumbled before them. No knights rode out to challenge them; they knew it was of no use. The town burned. Safe and sound outside the town's walls and on one of the highest viewpoints in the land, Altair and Malik shared food and drink and companionship. They disputed on nearly everything, and yet the_ jihad _drew them together.

The two assassins watched, side by side, as finally the Franj mobilized. On one side the bright banners and pennons of the Franj- red crosses on white for the Templars and white crosses on black for the Hopsitallers. On the other side were the houses of Islam; yellow for the Ayyubids and Mumluks, black for the Seljuqs, green and white for the Fatimids, all gathered to bring forth _jihad_. The two armies met with a roar, the resulting cloud of dust they stamped forth momentarily cutting the assassins' view. "Oh," said Malik, "I feel it in my blood, the pounding of the drums of war."

Altair was too immersed in the fight to hear. The Templars spent themselves in the initial charge, and by the time they reared for a second charge, few had the strength to lift their swords. The Muslim army hacked their way through their lines, and Turkish arrows felled their horses. Even from their high viewpoint, Altair and Malik could faintly pick out de Ridefort's hoarse voice calling "countercharge! Allez, mes gars! God wills it!"

But for every Saracen de Ridefort cut down, more seemed to appear. They came again and again, more and more of them at every turn. Even King Guy was here, fighting for the holiest of Holy Lands, knowing that this battle would decide everything. But they were disorganized and desperate for water, and their demoralized men were breaking rank. It was only a matter of time.

As the infidel army fell to Muslim swords, their blood painting the ground red with defeat, the tide of history was about to change.

"I-I can't believe it," said Altair, his own words coming out on a choked breath.

"We're taking it," Malik was equally stunned, "we're taking back Jerusalem!"

But no, the Franj were resolute. They charged a second time, and pushed the Muslims back. The Crusaders were close to Salah ad-Din's tent, and despite himself Altair squeezed his hands into fists until his knuckles were white_… Drive the Franj from the land. Do not surrender._ With his eagle's eyes, he could just see the top of Salah ad-Din's steel clad head as he shouted something inaudible. The Muslim army charged again, and the Franj withdrew.

"We've beaten them!" The Saracens shouted, but the Franj rallied and charged again, driving the Muslims back to Salah ad-Din.

"No!" Malik cried, "No!"

This time, the Sultan's cry rang clear above the din of battle, "again! Lay waste to the infidel army!" On his horse, he was a nightmare, slicing and slashing through the enemy soldiers. He seemed possessed by God himself, his movements taking on an ethereal quality, and Malik could not help but murmur _"Allah, Allah, Allah"_ in appreciation of what he saw.

* * *

"We have beaten them!" Salah ad-Din's men cried again when again the Franj drew back. Ra'id Al-Dosari, figurehead commander of the Ayyubid troops from Egypt, was already overcome with emotion, "Allah has blessed us! Allah-o-akbhar! Allah is great!" It felt as though all his sins and mistakes were washed away in this one moment of unspeakable glory. Everything he'd ever done in his life was leading him to this one magnificent moment in time.

"Hush," the Sultan rounded on his own son, who was already yelling and crying in joy, "we have not beaten them until King Guy's tent falls."

Just as he said the words, the tent fell. Salah ad-Din immediately dismounted his horse, and weeping with joy fell prostrate to the battle worn ground, giving thanks to God Almighty.

* * *

One after the other, Salah ad-Din and his men took back Acre, the port of Jaffa, Nablus, Toron, Ascalon, Sidon, and Beirut.

Finally the Sultan pushed into Jerusalem, and the Franj surrendered. They were all afraid- no, they were _terrified_ of what he would do. During the First Crusade, the Christians had come and slaughtered every soul in Jerusalem's walls, men and women and children. With Salah ad-Din pounding at the gates, Christian women cut their hair and shaved the heads of their daughters so they might not be raped. Priests hid their holy relics so they might not be destroyed. But when the city at last fell, Salah ad-Din ordered his men to kill no one. Not a single life was to be taken, and nothing was to be destroyed. The Christian population would be allowed to live. They would even be allowed to go to their own churches.

Instead of murder and brutality, he ordered his soldiers to cleanse Jerusalem's temples and mosques with rosewater. Finally, after more than eighty years, the Muslims of Jerusalem were allowed to pay worship to Allah. It seemed that Salah ad-Din was at the top of the world, having taken back Jerusalem from the Franj. He was the saviour of the Islamic people.

When the news spread across the land that Salah ad-Din had retaken Jerusalem, the Assassins celebrated. In the grand courtyard the men took turns drawing on a brass hookah, wrestling and joking with one another. The women grouped together and shared strange leaves from foreign lands that, when chewed, made the world melt away. Discreetly, they put the leaves under their tongues and revelled in their silent rebellion. _Let the men have their hookahs- they had their own ways._ The night carried on and the informal festivities grew more rowdy, so Al Mualim himself had to put an end to it. Despite this, all could see that the Grand Master was also in good spirits.

Among the rapidly dispersing crowds, Aasha sought out Malik. Ever since he visited her in the infirmary, something shifted between them. The man no longer ran from her, and instead stood his ground and asked of her day. Over time they began to call each other friends, but their relationship was made burdened by the fact that they knew each other to be of the opposite gender. The assumption was already there that both parties wanted something more. A woman would not make friends with a man solely for companionship's sake- it was just that simple.

Aasha could not help but marvel at how quickly she could reduce the composed man into a bumbling mess if she tried. Malik no longer hid his attraction towards her, and thus she was no longer embarrassed by her own feelings. Knowing that she was wanted made her confident, sometimes too much so. When she went too far, Malik deflated her ego by showing her how easily he could make her swoon on her feet. _It was not fair!_ But the two of them were at the point in their lives wherein they understood what they had to offer and what they wanted, and all the rules be damned.

"Will you come with me to the garden?"

The assassin took a sharp breath, and then released it slowly. His cheeks were dusted red from the spiced ale he drank, but he kept his clear head. "Of course."

As they walked, Aasha kept several steps behind the man. She didn't even think of it- this was custom whenever a woman walked with a man. But Malik stopped or slowed several times to point out something random or to look at something, and he continued to do this until she was at his side. Before she could step back, his hand snaked out to catch her wrist. He did not need to say anything else, Aasha understood.

The smell of sweat and ale gave way to the uplifting sweetness of lime trees and fresh grass. Here they could be somewhat alone, for everywhere else in the fortress they would be seen and watched by their superiors. Water was bubbling in a fountain at the garden's centre, and the concubines there raised their brows at the two. They were wondering if they were here to rut against each other like the pairs they'd seen scurry out in the past hours. In fact, two of them were still lying with each other in a bush somewhere. They probably collapsed from the ale or exhaustion, and there they would rest until morning. Naturally, they wanted to see if they would get another show. The members of the Order were usually so strict with one another that witnessing these acts of carnal passion among them ensured the concubines of their own humanity.

"You must be happy," Aasha observed when Malik had trouble keeping down his carefree grin, "that Salah ad-Din has driven the Franj from the land."

"Not just that," the assassin squeezed her hand, still in his. "I'm happy to see it all over!"

As he spoke, Aasha could not help but trace the lines of his lips and the smiles in his eyes. She felt woozy all of a sudden, and it wasn't the overwhelming scent of jasmine this time.

"And," Malik added, "I'm happy to see you recovered." Of course, healing from a sprained ankle and some minor breakages was nothing to brag about. If it had been him, Altair, or any other man, no one would've even batted an eyelash at it. They'd been through much worse. But _women _were not supposed to be injured. He battled with the guilt while she was gone, knowing that he should have protested, should have gotten someone else to go in her place. But now that he thought of it, there was no other possible spy that could have done the work she did. Believing that she might never come back, that she could end up like Leyla, made Malik discover the depth of his fondness for her.

"I'm sorry to hear about the dagger. I was wrong to give it to you." And Malik was truly sorry. He knew now that by giving her the weapon, he'd upset Allah's balance. The universe lashed back, resulting in her injuries. To give a woman a weapon was to court disaster, and he should have known better.

"And I'm sorry to have told you about Jacques."

Again the assassin looked like he was not following her. "Ja…" Recognition flickered in his eyes, "ah, the knight." After some prompting long ago, the gypsy told him about her friendship with Imad and the Saracen's relationship with this Templar Knight. At first he didn't know what to think; he'd never heard of such a thing. But it interested Aasha, so he too pretended to be interested. When the spy discovered he was in truth put off by the story, she stopped and apologized profusely. He was slightly curious about this knight though, fluent in Arabic and supposedly knowledgeable of the Quran. Surely after reading the words of Allah and the Holy Prophet, Peace be with Him, the knight could not justify his own existence!

But right now there were more important things on his mind. Things like how close Aasha was and how she smelled. Feeling dangerously brave, he parted her soft hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead, on her third eye. His heart hammered against his breast for several long moments while he waited for her to respond. When she put both arms around him and drew herself closer to his touch, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that this was no dream.

And then Malik woke up.

No, no- he was still in the garden with Aasha, but when the spy drew away from him it felt as if a dream world was collapsing before his very eyes. "I'm sorry," he blurted in panic, "I won't do it again."

All Aasha wanted to do was to press her lips to Malik's and be done with it, her pride be damned. But she did care about what others would say if they ever found out… And she was not supposed to care for a brother of the Order like so. In many ways, like Imad and Jacques, she and Malik found themselves caged in by the boundaries imposed upon them.

The concubines were watching them with interest now from afar, sprawling all over their couches and fanning themselves leisurely as the crickets began to sing. Sunlight lost the battle to lantern light, and the garden was bathed in a wash of gold and orange fire. Their glass bangles clinked together when they moved, and despite how softly they whispered to one another behind their veils, Aasha still heard them. Funny, how she could not even hear Malik's words as his mouth moved but could hear these concubines gossiping so far away.

It hurt her to say it, and in truth she only said it to preserve herself in Malik's opinion, "the Order forbids this."

"And so what?" Malik was determined, and it looked like he had discussed this in detail with himself in the past, "I cannot care for one of my own?" He stood up and faced her, coming to stand just a hand's width away from her.

"I-" the breath was forced from her when Malik hastily crushed her to him, both arms braced around her, hands at the plane of her back and his face tucked in the space where her neck met her shoulder. He breathed in her smell and he was all warmth and heat and _fire_. Without thinking, Aasha wound her arms around his neck and then her fingers found themselves tangled in his short hair. This Malik was no longer the gangly boy who teased and made awkward jabs at her. This Malik was a beautiful creature overflowing with visceral passion.

"Tell me you don't want this," Malik growled against her skin, and Aasha did want this. She wanted this very much. Ever since Imad asked her about her love in Masyaf, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about Malik. But now that he was hers, she was deathly afraid. Her thighs trembled for him- obviously she wanted him, but a horrible feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She was scared because she didn't know what he was doing to her, what could happen next. She was never schooled about this, and the only things she knew about… _sex_ came from Nadia's descriptions of it.

Her voice came out higher than expected, one of Malik's hands having snaked around to grab at her breast. She jumped at the contact, "I want you, but I… I don't think I can take all of you." Obviously she'd said the wrong thing, since it only made the assassin more excited. Flushing at the implications of her mistake, she tried to correct herself, "as in, I'm not ready for all of _this._"

All movement paused for a tense few bated breaths, and Malik's hands fell to her waist, "oh." Then he withdrew his hands to his sides as if she was burning him, "then…"

She didn't want him to think he'd done anything wrong. No, not when he did everything so _right_. But she didn't want to give herself to Malik or any man tonight, not in Masyaf's garden and certainly not in view of giggling concubines. "I do care so much for you," she sighed, a hint of her desert rasp returning to her voice. There was no point of playing around with the word 'love', for both of them knew they could not hope to understand it. Love terrified them. Love made people kill each other, kill themselves, go mad with joy, and insane with grief. Neither of them were ready to admit they loved anyone or anything, in case it be taken away.

Judging her confession to be genuine, Malik could not help but ask, "then why won't you let me have you?"

_To have her?_ The man sounded like a child stealing sweet dates, crying 'why won't you let me have it?' when the cooks slapped the back of his hand. Aasha could not hold back her laughter.

"I'm glad you find this funny," Malik shifted on his feet, looking uneasy yet entertained. "Am I really all that undesirable?"

"Not true," she squeezed out through giggles, struggling to find her composure again. She took a deep breath and met his eyes, "I need… I need to find in myself what I can give you first." It hadn't made sense, but something told her it was the right thing to say.

Obviously Malik hadn't understood either, for the man just looked perplexed. Aasha was no longer looking at him now, and it made him angry. When she was younger, the gypsy looked him dead in the eyes and would hold his gaze. Women were not supposed to look men in the eyes, but somehow he had not been offended when she did it. He wished she'd do it again. "Can I at least kiss you still?"

No sooner had Aasha agreed did she find herself surrounded by everything that was Malik once again. Relieved, she let him pepper kisses on her nose and awkwardly kissed him back when he dove at her mouth, unfamiliar with the taste and feel of another's tongue in her mouth. When they finally drew back, a thin string of saliva linked them together for an instant before breaking away.

He looked at her and smiled, murmuring "Allah, Allah, Allah."

* * *

_"Allah, allah, allah." _

_Altair's vision swam in and out, catching on indistinct shapes and blurry movements. Someone was by his side, praying. The assassin's chest rose and fell harshly, heaving with the effort of breathing. His eyes closed again, the fever wracking his form. Everything was too hot- his breath came out in strained puffs, his entire body shaking with the contained heat and yet not being able to sweat. _

_"I think he is going to die."_

_"Brother, Allah has pulled you from the brink of death many times." _

_"Look how sunken his eyes are, and he looks already dead." _

_When he struggled to open his eyes again, Altair hazily realized that he was not with the Order any more. He was not in a Bureau, not in Masyaf's infirmary. He was in a goatskin tent. A clay bowl at his side held remnants of an herbal concoction, and his mouth tasted bitter. He searched for the features on the faceless man treating his fever, eventually focusing in on the heavy kohl lining his eyes._

_His healer unravelled the shemagh around his face, and the visage that emerged was Dom through and through. _

_"Peace, brother," said the strange man, holding up a hand in respect. "I am Mudhil, son of Omar son of Jahir of the Ubeidah." He motioned to the younger man beside him. "This is my brother, Amir son of Omar son of Jahir of the Ubeidah." _

* * *

_End of Chapter 9._

* * *

I had some of this written out before I left, and surprisingly there are computers and wi-fi here on base. So I'm in my own tent writing Assassin's Creed fanfiction on some weekends and recovering from the week of hell. I'm alright so far; a little battered, but not injured yet as some people have been. Lord almighty. I guess this means the hiatus is off.

Anyway, this chapter marks the end of the Second Crusade and the beginning of many other things. As always, **please leave feedback and let me know what you think! C:**


	10. Image 348: Omar of the Ubeidah

They thought it was over, but they were wrong. The Pope in Rome, after hearing of the Franj's defeat, died from grief. His successor immediately called for another Holy War. Once again, the land was plunged into chaos.

_The Third Crusade._

The Templars laid siege to Masyaf while Aasha was on a mission, and when she returned it seemed all was ruined. Their new Grand Master, Robert de Sable, was a ruthless and cunning man. No doubt as revenge for the massacre of Templar Knights more than a year ago, he laid waste to Masyaf and nearly killed Al Mualim. At the last moment, she was told, Altair Ibn La'ahad arrived to save Al Mualim and rescue Masyaf from the Templar threat. For his bravery and skill, Altair was elevated to Master Assassin, the only Master in Masyaf. He outranked even Nasir now, and was the strongest assassin next to the Grand Master himself. He was truly the Eagle of Masyaf.

Malik was not jealous at all.

_Well,_ that wasn't true. He was rightly upset when he discovered this- after all, he was older than Altair and always worked so hard. Nonetheless, it didn't seem to matter in the end because the other man was always one step ahead of him. Altair was a shadow Malik could never catch. But that deep sated envy and hatred was made bearable by the knowledge that he now had something Altair could never dream of- Aasha. They remained outward friends, but most were aware of the nature of their relationship. Malik's friends congratulated him, then looked mystified when he told them that no, the girl did not give herself to him. Altair made no comment about it, and in fact Malik did not know if the other assassin even knew about he and Aasha, since the Eagle was so often out of Masyaf on missions.

As for Aasha herself, she could not justify her strange companionship with Malik either. She didn't know where it was going, or indeed if there was anywhere to go at all. But she felt happy in the present, and that was enough. Nadia had a secret lover outside of the Order, whom she visited whenever on mission in Damascus. Both women knew now that the teachings they'd so eagerly absorbed as children were moot. They were not nuns or priestesses, after all, and it seemed a waste not to enjoy their youth.

In the face of their sins for which they no longer had the patience to repent, they convinced themselves that was nothing to be ashamed of. The assassins did not take vows of celibacy, nor did they ever promise to never love each other. "If we had," said Kadar, always eager to weigh in on Malik's relationship problems, "we would be like the Templars!"

And somehow Malik mourned that, because the Templars swore to celibacy and were formidable opponents.

Always Malik or Aasha was preoccupied with work or the time just _was not right_. They nearly never met each other in Masyaf. When they came face to face by chance out in the kingdom, however, they wasted no time in each other's company. Each time Malik accepted a feather, a job to kill a target, he risked death. Working with the Assassin's Order, it is not difficult to eventually come to the conclusion that everyone was expendable, replaceable… Except perhaps for Altair, the rumours said.

If they ever met in Damascus, they would sit on its rooftops eating sweet cakes from the stalls below and picking out patterns in the clouds. Assassins had no possessions, and in that way they were like the Templar Knights. All they had belonged to the Order, but that didn't mean they couldn't _acquire_ coins to enjoy themselves while out for work. In Acre, they sat on benches by the docks like normal civilians, watching the ships come and go into the port. Most times they met in Jerusalem, and here they hid from the sun in rooftop gardens. This was partly because there was _too much_ to see and partly because every Christian man reminded Aasha of Messire de Sonnac. Being in Jerusalem reminded them both of how caged they both were. Malik made his rites to Allah in the mornings while prostrate, touching his forehead to the ground in praise. Altair never did this, feeling that Allah might be offended to receive prayers from a man half Franj.

"I long to go into that Mosque," Malik would say, looking forlornly to the splendid building casting light on all of Jerusalem. He'd never paid worship to Allah in a mosque before, and yearned to do so at least once in his life.

"I long to speak to that Christian," Aasha would say, watching a honey haired man pass by in the streets below. And once Malik got over his shock, he'd pull her away from the garden's edge to make sure she never saw another Christian in his presence. In some ways, she'd retained the unpredictability and stubbornness that first drew him to her, but the way she thought unsettled him.

Despite it all, they lived their lives with pleasure and balance. It was all sickeningly perfect until Malik, Altair, and Kadar left on a mission to Solomon's Temple. After that, everything changed.

* * *

_Altair brought them six throwing knives as a sign of his respect. _

_Amidst the bleating of sheep and the sounds of camels chewing thoughtfully on their feed, the Bedouin seemed to subsist on nothing. Sand surrounded them at every corner, and the image of their circle of tents propped up against the bare ground was a lurid sort of thing. Altair felt that if he so much as blinked, the entire tribe could disappear. Children played in the sands using marked stones, and men and women of all ages were walking about carrying out their duties. Altair kept his head low in respect, and the Bedu clan paid him little mind. They were surprisingly accepting towards strangers to their blood. Most even went so far as to stop their work to ask him who he was and how his day was going._

_Altair made his way to the tent of Omar and his two sons. By the goatskin tent, Amir was flipping a heavy piece of dough on a metal sheet with a fire underneath, concentrating on the process of breadmaking. This was usually a woman's job, but since his mother's death many years prior, the work was left to him. Still unmarried, he could escape this work once he found a wife for himself. Sweat dripped from his nose while he toiled, and he did not even notice Altair's arrival until the assassin was standing right over him. _

_A smile broke across the younger man's face. He and Altair exchanged salaams before Amir invited him into their family tent for a bit of tea. "The bread is burning and my brother is in the city," he explained, "but my father Omar will be happy to see you!" _

_Altair lifted the flap to said tent and a baby camel tottered out into the sunlight, bleating her displeasure. She brushed past Altair and bumped right into Amir's back, making him loose his hands and sending the piece of dough tumbling into the sand. Amir cried out in displeasure. He yelled in his desert-tongue to his father. Altair couldn't make sense of his words, but most probably he was complaining. The camel skittered off to find her mother, tethered to a post behind the tent. _

_Omar chuckled heartily, "try it again, Amir." His dulled eyes widened when Altair entered their tent, and he held up both his arms in welcome. "My friend, it is good to see that you are well." He struggled to rise to his feet, but his old bones were protesting. Grimacing with the pain in his joints and the reality of his age, Omar uttered an apology. _

_The assassin was not offended. "Please be at ease, my friend." Here he pulled six throwing knives from his belt and turned their sharp ends to himself. He offered them to Omar, "in thanks for your hospitality." _

_The gypsy man lounged upon his cushions and regarded the gifts offered to him. His smile slowly faded away. Even though his beard was long and very thick, Altair still felt keenly his change in demeanour. "These are very beautiful knives, my friend," Omar began, "but I cannot take them."_

_"I did not steal them," Altair lied, "they are bought from Damascus."_

_"I will not take compensation for something I would have done regardless." Omar waved him away dismissively, "and to be true, I think you have more use for them than I." He was referring to Altair's beard, or lack thereof. One did not shave himself so completely unless one was making oneself ready to meet Allah. When they came across Altair, he was nearly dead. Dehydration and fever had dealt him much damage, but since meeting any new face so deep in the desert was a rare occurrence, his arrival prompted happy hospitality and interest from their clan. _

_Altair had not prepared any sort of lengthy speech. He had not anticipated that his gift be refuted and that he'd actually have to convince the man to accept it. He wasn't even sure what drove him to come back here and find the little tent in the wide stretch of desert, but he felt as if he owed this Omar his most sincere thanks. "But… you could use them in your raids."_

_Omar frowned and shook his head. "We do not raid."_

_"But you are Bedu."_

_"Yes, we are Bedouin, but that just means that we are Desert Dwellers. By choice, we are not raiders," the Dom reiterated forcefully. "We live in peace with our herds, and we make our honest living renting our animals and trading them. We eat from the land and from our beasts, and we have no need to raid. Other clans might for their own reasons, but Allah has blessed us with more than we need for our lives. However, in a land of such harshness, a well could become the object of a century of blood feud. We fight to defend our land and beast and resources- most of all, water. And as I said, I will not accept payment for what I would have done anyway." _

_Altair nodded, himself feeling very awkward but not knowing what to say. He put away the blades and debated whether he should apologize. He settled on complimenting Omar for having two strong sons. _

_"Yes," Omar nodded his approval, "Mudhil is a strong man much like you, and keeps his wife's belly round with child. Amir is growing bigger by the day. But I wish I still had my daughters." _

_"Oh?" the assassin wasn't genuinely interested, but the old man looked far gone. All the light fled from his eyes, and immediately Altair knew that his daughters were dead. Omar beckoned Altair to sit and poured him a bit of tea in a clay cup. Altair didn't know what sort of tea it was, since it tasted a little muddy and not at all pleasant. But he drank it to be polite, and lowered his hood in the other man's company. _

_"I had two daughters once, and they were the jewels of my house until a windstorm claimed them." Omar blinked quickly, his voice breaking, "and our lives were never the same. My wife grew sick that year, and my sons could do little." _

_"That is unfortunate," Altair agreed, for suddenly this family was without women's labour, and the transition must have been hard. "But could you not have enlisted your fellow clansmen to help?" There must be two or three dozen Dom living in this camp._

_"No, we were not living with this tribe at the time." Omar explained that as a young man, he broke away with the woman he loved and tried to live alone in the desert. "There are many Dom who live in their own isolated pockets, and we all meet once each year to celebrate our shared blood." He frowned at his own cup of tea, as if suddenly realizing it tasted horrible. "I was always Ubeidah, but preferred my own family over the company of my blood brothers. I was a young and stupid man who wanted peace for my family- I didn't want to subject my children to the constant warring between our Bedu clans. But now I see that conflict is always present, and to run from it was cowardice. Perhaps if I'd re-joined the clan sooner, my daughters would not be gone. They could have been safer and better accompanied, at least. If I'd done it sooner, my wife could have received the blessing of the Holy Man, and she would not have passed away. If only I'd done it sooner…" his voice broke off completely and the man dissolved into tears. "At least now I will have no fear of alone. They cannot replace my daughters and my wife, and I will not take another, but the Ubeidah is my family now." _

_Altair murmured unfelt condolences, acutely feeling the man's pain as he himself suffered the death of his father. If Omar noticed his insincerity, he did not mention it. When he finally left the camp later on that night, he offered the jeweled blades to Mudhil, who took them in without a word. _

* * *

"Wait! There must be another way- this one need not die!"

But it was too late. Malik's outcry went unheeded as Altair sprang upon the helpless Templar priest, burying his hidden blade in the old man's neck and ending his life.

"An excellent kill," Kadar smiled widely, ever admiring of the Eagle. To be able to work alongside with Altair was a great honour to Kadar, and he openly idolized the man. His brother, on the other hand, seemed to hold nothing but contempt for him. Rebelliously, he added, "fortune favours your blade!" Malik twitched out of frustration at his brother's misguided veneration.

"Not fortune," Altair shook his head arrogantly, "but skill! Watch a while longer and you might learn." The priest's blood blossomed against his white robes; he would not be discovered in the abandoned temple. No rites would be given to him. In truth, he should not have died. He was an innocent, not posing threat to the assassins. Malik's mouth turned down in a scowl- _Altair was wrong to kill him._

"Indeed," Malik shot back at Kadar, "he'll teach you how to disregard everything the Master's taught us!" What he would've done was to follow the Creed- he could not allow the Master Assassin to influence his brother in the wrong way. He turned on Altair, "you know to stay your blade from the blood of an innocent!" _The first tenant of the Assassin's Creed._

"Nothing is true, and everything is permitted." Altair did not look bothered by what he'd just done, "it matters now how we complete our task. Only that it's done."

"This is not the way," the other assassin growled dangerously.

Sheathing his hidden blade, Altair nudged the priest with his foot to turn him on his side, a blatant show of disrespect. "My way is better."

Ever since Altair became a Master Assassin, he'd let his ego take over. He no longer cared about what others thought of him, and used his rank as a weapon. Malik now had no choice but to defer to his commands, regardless of how conceited they were. Any insubordination on his part could be reported to Al Mualim, who would punish him for his insolence. Altair was skilled to be certain, but it did not give him right to treat others in this way. It also didn't help that Kadar so openly respected him- the boy was too naïve, too trustworthy.

Suppressing the boiling anger in his chest, Malik bit the inside of his cheek until it bled. "Fine! I will scout ahead. Try not to dishonour us further." Without further preamble, they made their way down the temple's winding staircases. The air was thick with dust and the smell of mould, causing Kadar to cough every once in a while. Stone walls and rotting wood planks met them at every turn, but the assassins expertly manoeuvred through the wreckage.

"What is our mission?" Kadar asked Altair timidly, pointedly ignoring Malik's poisonous glare, "my brother would say nothing to me… only that I should be honoured to have been invited." His grey hood and arms betrayed his low rank among Altair and Malik's white robes.

Altair deftly danced around the rubble and empty crates littering this floor of the temple. "The Master believes the Templars have found something below the temple… He must consider it important, else he would not have asked _me_ to retrieve it."

The assassins climbed a rickety ladder, Kadar ready to ask another question when Malik shushed him, "we are no longer alone."

And he was right. The ladder led to an alcove in the wall, before which a Franj soldier was patrolling. Malik immediately advised Altair that they should find another way, but the Master Assassin was already scaling the ladder at high speed. Heaving himself silently onto the stone ground, he approached the unsuspecting soldier with feet light as air and again slit his throat. The Franj sputtered once, and then dropped to the ground in a growing pool of his own blood.

Altair turned his golden eyes to Malik and Kadar, who were scrambling up the ladder after him. Altair dared Malik to say something, anything. The older Al-Sayf kept his mouth shut despite wanting nothing more than to strangle Altair where he stood. The assassin had broken yet another tenant of the Creed, to hide in plain sight.

Finally they came across a chamber wherein below they could see a golden box high above a pile of broken rock. Inlaid with all sorts of precious jewels, it was no doubt the treasure they sought. But the assassins were not the first here.

A dozen Templar Knights were strewn about the area, obviously unaware of the assassins who were watching them from a wooden balcony above.

"I want this through the gate by sunrise!" That was none other than the Grand Master of the Templar Knights himself, Robert de Sable. His bald head made him instantly recognizable, the sight of it having been seared into every assassin's nightmares since he rode into Masyaf during its siege. "The sooner we possess it, the sooner we can turn our attention to those jackals at Masyaf! The deaths of our brothers will be avenged!" He was referring, of course, to the massacre of Templar Knights the assassins had carried out alongside Salah ad-Din.

"Robert de Sable!" Altair was already shaking with anticipation, "his life is mine!"

"No!" Malik grabbed Altair's shoulder to stop the man from hurtling himself down the stairs and revealing their presence. "We want to deal with Robert only if necessary!"

Seizing Malik's hand, Altair gave his wrist an expert twist and the man nearly cried out in pain. Kadar gasped, "brother!" Malik was not injured, and frankly had expected this sort of reaction from Altair. Nonetheless, he could not allow him to compromise their mission so. "Our mission is to retrieve the treasure, nothing more."

"He stands between us and it," Altair countered smartly, "I would say it's necessary!"

Malik would not give up, "discretion, Altair!"

"You mean cowardice. That man is our greatest enemy… and here we have a chance to get rid of him!" And here Altair had a chance to once again prove his skill to Al Mualim.

Exasperated, Malik could only beg. "You have already broken two tenants of our Creed… now you would break the third. Do not compromise the Brotherhood!"

"I am your superior," Altair snarled, regarding Malik as he would look upon an enemy, "in both title and ability. You should know better than to question me."

With that, Altair turned with a great swish of his robes and strode down to the area where the Templars were congregated. He attempted no stealth; he literally just _walked_. Malik pinched himself, but he was not dreaming. Kadar just looked on with unwavering admiration, no doubt expecting Altair to _somehow_ come out victorious against a dozen Templar Knights.

"Hold, Templars!" he called out cockily, "you are not the only ones with business here!"

Robert de Sable beheld him and laughed, not even bothering to put on his helmet. He motioned for his knights to stand at ease and sheathe their blades. "Ah! Well, this explains my missing man! And what is it you want, assassin?"

With a flick of his arm, Altair unsheathed his hidden blade and dashed towards Robert, "blood!"

Malik could watch no longer. He leapt from his watch point and tried to grab Altair. He failed, but his attempt threw him off his balance just as the assassin got close. This gave Robert the chance to pull his sword and block Altair's attack, his other hand coming to take hold of the assassin's wrist where that hand formed into a fist. They struggled only briefly before the Franj's superior strength completely restrained Altair from any movement. He was more than a head taller than Altair, was better built, and was too well trained.

Victorious, Robert took the chance to enjoy Altair's expression of absolute panic. "You know not the things in which you meddle, assassin." He spat in Altair's face when the man tried and failed to knee him in the groin, "I spare you only that you may return to your master and deliver a message: the Holy Land is lost to him. He should flee now while he has the chance. Stay, and all of you will die."

Then with a great shove, he threw Altair off of him and into a crumbling wall. The assassin could not regain his bearings fast enough before the entire wall collapsed before him, blocking him from the treasure room. He could find no other way in, and on the other side he heard Robert shout, "men! To arms! Kill the assassins!"

The sounds of struggle broke out, Malik and Kadar shouting for each other as they were completely overwhelmed by a dozen knights. Knowing he had to save them before they were cut down, Altair strained to find an alternative route. Climbing through the temple ruins, he soon discovered that the room was now lost to him. When he finally emerged through a window much later, he understood that Malik and Kadar were now lost as well.

* * *

"I send you, my best man…" Al Mualim could barely contain his fury, "to complete a mission more important than any that has come before. And you return to me with nothing but apologies and excuses!"

"I did-"

"Do not speak!" he gestured angrily, "not another word! This is not what I expected…" Pacing back and forth, the Grand Master stroked his beard and tried to comprehend how such a disaster could have been allowed to occur. Gazing up at the fortress' high ceilings, he willed himself to wake from this horrid nightmare. Suddenly, he noticed the absence of the other two that went with Altair. "Where are Malik and Kadar?"

Altair did not even hesitate, "dead."

"No…" Malik stumbled up the stairs to the Grand Master, all the while glaring daggers at Altair, "not dead!"

"Malik!" Al Mualim cried, for the assassin might as well have been dead. He was bleeding heavily, his left arm hanging limp and lifeless at his side. All the color was drained from his face, leaving his skin pale and clammy. Malik whimpered with the agony, barely able to hold himself upright. Altair himself was too stunned to move, for once speechless.

"I still live at least!"

"And where is your brother?"

"Gone…" Malik choked back a sob, and then pointed violently at Altair, "because of you!"

While the other man's voice was hoarse with pain and sorrow, Altair fought to keep his calm. "Robert threw me from the room! There was no way back, nothing I could do."

Angry to the point of hysteria, Malik no longer held back his hatred for Altair. No, he would no longer be silent when it came to Altair. "Because you would not heed my warning! All of this could have been avoided! And my brother…" his throat constricted, another sob shuddering through his body, "my brother would still be alive! Your arrogance nearly cost us victory today!"

Al Mualim caught his last words, "_nearly?_"

Malik turned to the Grand Master, "I brought what your favourite failed to find. Here, take it!" He motioned with his shaky left hand, where another assassin approached with an ornate golden object. "Though," Malik had to grasp at a railing to keep himself from falling, "though it seems I have returned with more than just treasure…"

An assassin burst through into the main hall, rousing Al Mualim's attention. "What is it?" he called to the man below, "I am very busy!"

"Master!" the assassin struggled to catch his breath, "we are under attack! Robert de Sable lays siege to Maysaf's village!"

Al Mualim understood immediately. "So he seeks a battle! Very well, I will not deny him. Go, inform the others." The assassin bowed quickly and scurried off. Once more, the Grand Master looked to Altair, "as for you, Altair, our _discussion_ will have to wait… You must make for the village. Destroy the invaders- drive them from our home!"

The flash of red from Altair's sash against the white of his robes was all Malik's dazed eyes could take in before he collapsed, duty accomplished.

* * *

The men rushed off to fight the invading Templars.

The spies and courtesans were hidden away in the bowels of the fortress so they might not be found and killed in case the Templars were victorious. In that case, their last hope rested in Salah ad-Din coming to liberate them. And this was where Aasha found herself, pushed and ordered into ever narrowing halls deep inside the fortress. Masyaf was under siege! In the musky dark, she searched for familiar faces. Surrounded by panicked women, she found many faces she knew but none that comforted her.

"Hurry, hurry," Mistress Khitan barked at them, waving her thin arms in a dramatic manner. In a lewd sense, she looked like a shepherd gathering her flock. The young women who called her mother followed her commands without a word more, pushing and shoving each other towards safety.

The word was that Malik had returned from his mission and somehow led the Templars to Masyaf. The word also said that he was heavily wounded, and that Kadar… that Kadar was _dead_. A sour taste sprang to Aasha's mouth- she had to find Malik. He must be in the infirmary by now, with the healers working over him. She remembered when Malik made his first assassination, how desperately he'd needed someone to listen. And now, with his brother dead, the older –no, only- Al Sayf must be utterly torn to pieces. She wanted desperately to be by his side, but there was no way for her to break from her steps carrying her forward and forward. Should she turn back and push past the Mistress, she could be killed for her insolence.

Finally, she bumped shoulders with Nadia, who was similarly frazzled.

"What words on the wind, sister?" She whispered to the courtesan, putting both hands on the shoulders of the woman in front of her and walking on that way. It was now too dark to see, and the air here was cool but smelled damp with mould and loneliness. A few minutes longer and they would be in the safe area. Aasha just wanted some light, for the darkness made her uneasy.

Nadia grasped onto Aasha's forearm and pulled her arm to lock with hers, intertwining their arms together so that they would not be separated. "The word flies that it is all Altair's fault."

Altair, who was always too proud, too haughty, too arrogant. She should have known! Aasha grit her teeth together in frustration- she would never look at him with respect again. Yes, as a girl she admired him, was captivated by his effortless skill. But now as a woman, she saw him for all his imperfections. And if it was true that he'd caused Malik's injury and Kadar's death, then she would hate him forever.

Without knowing, Aasha let go of the woman in front of her, and one step of Nadia's to the off-right pulled them away from the crowd into a completely separate corridor. The darkness hid it from them, and they did not even know they were separated until they felt walls around them and a noticeable lack of bodies pushing them forward. Mistress Khitan's soft footsteps carried and echoed in a distant hall, growing louder and then melting away into silence.

Nadia and Aasha were alone, separated from the group. "We must catch up with them," the courtesan pulled on Aasha's hand, and together they made a turn and tried their best to find their way again. But there must have been more corridors and turns in this hall than they knew, for they never heard the Mistress' footfalls again. Now they were very afraid. They felt along the unforgiving stone walls until their fingers and hands tingled, but the walls did not tell them where to go.

"If we keep going, we're going to get lost and we're going to starve to death before they find us," Aasha gripped Nadia's hand with more force than was necessary.

She sensed the other woman turning to face her, since now she could feel Nadia's sweet smelling breath on her cheek. "…Should we go towards the light, then?"

If she squinted, the spy could make out a faint glow coming from one end of their current hall, and the ground beneath them sloped up towards that light. It would take them back where they'd come, away from safety and out into the fortress. Possibly into danger. But they had no choice. Hand in hand, they started the trek up the long and winding hall, ever following the direction of the light. Walking up the slope was much more difficult than walking down it, and soon the two women were huffing and puffing with the effort. The light became more and more pronounced, and finally it spilled out unto them as they made their way to the iron gate that separated them from the garden. The Templars would not expect a secret passageway in the garden, and this was precisely why it was built. All things still looked peaceful from here; there were no signs of struggle or battle. The flowers still bloomed, the leaves on the trees rustled softly in the afternoon breeze…

Disgusting, all of it.

They pushed and rattled at the iron gate, shouting for help.

The concubines, who were worthless to the Order and left there to perish, rubbed their eyes upon seeing them. "Why did you come back?"

The two women were never addressed directly by the concubines before, and didn't know how they should respond. Should they order them around? Did they have the right to do so? After all, these women were mere playthings for the assassins.

"We got lost," Nadia explained, "and we traced our steps back…"

One concubine looked to another, looking hideously beautiful in every line of her neck that twisted, "should we let them out?"

"No," the other replied venomously, "let the Templars find them there and let them die along with the rest of us." Her glare was dripping hatred and betrayal as she regarded the spy and courtesan, so similar and yet different from them… worthy of life. "And let us hope that the Templars catch on to where you bitches have gone to hide, and slaughter you all."

"No, please!" the courtesan begged, pushing again at the gates, "please, if you have the key, please let us out. We will gladly die, but not here! We cannot endanger our sisters."

"And are we not your sisters?" One concubine, sprawled on a bed of cushions under the shade of a tree, fanned herself. "My name is Sunbul, and I have served the Order just as you do."

Nadia could find no words to counter that, deeply unsettled by the thought that she and the concubines had more in common than not.

Sunbul continued, stretching herself on the bright cushions like a cat, "and you left me to perish here without a second thought. I watched you as you went down the hatch, and none of you looked back. It was like we were not even here, like we were not your sisters who have shared your food and drink and dreams."

It had not occurred to neither spy nor courtesan that the concubines had dreams, too. That they were women like them, not just mindless toys for the assassins.

"I'm sorry," Aasha reached through the gap between the bars of iron in hopes of touching her and reassuring her… but Sunbul was too far away, and her moss coloured eyes followed the spy's movements dispassionately. "I'm sorry, but I need to go see the man I love." She hoped she could appeal to Sunbul's compassion, and at least she was speaking… the truth? She didn't feel guilty at all, not even when Nadia's head snapped to her direction with astonishment.

"Oh ho!" Another concubine laughed, "Malik Al-Sayf! Yes, I hear that they're cutting his arm off as we speak. It's a shame, too, he always put both arms to good use when with me."

Of course she knew that Malik found pleasure with these women when he desired it, and she was not immune from jealousy. Yet still, this was a petty attack.

"How can you claim to love him if you haven't lain with him?" One concubine jeered, "obviously if you're not willing to give yourself to him, you don't trust him as a lover should."

Forcing herself to be calm, Aasha took several deep breaths. The garden was so quiet, so tranquil… No doubt there was bloodshed in the village, no doubt the Templars were working their way up to the fortress… There was little time left. Somehow, Aasha and Nadia had to appeal to the concubines' sympathy.

"I chose not to give myself to him because…" she looked to her feet, a flush of heat rising to her cheeks. The concubines watched her intently, daring her to insult their work and virtue. Aasha closed her eyes, "because it would not have meant anything to him. And… and I do not have your strength." Her eyes rose to meet with those of the concubine closest to her, "I was not able to give myself to him, knowing that he might not give himself in return, knowing that he would still seek you out." Part lie, part truth, Aasha knew… but which parts were lies?

When the concubine holding her eyes made no comment, Aasha asked her for her name.

"I am Durriyah," the woman replied, her voice now soft as petals. "And this is Fatima, this is Izzah, she is Maysum, and that is Jala. Let us not forget my sister and friend Sunbul."

One by one, Aasha and Nadia met the eyes of the concubines who until then were only nameless flowers decorating the garden.

"I'm happy to meet you, my sisters," Aasha bowed her head in respect, "I honour the work you do, though it hurts me."

Durriyah sniffed, "I am pleased to finally meet you as well, gypsy girl." In her mind, they were now on even ground at last. At least the spy was humble!

"We've seen you with Malik," the woman called Izzah called to her, and Aasha noted that she was the same concubine that made the joke about Malik's arm. "We've seen you with him and him with you, and perhaps I should add that he has not visited us since Salah ad-Din took Jerusalem."

"I-" she was taken aback, "t-thank you."

Izzah gathered her thick hair in her hands and combed it with her fingers. She nodded in response, and then looked away. She quite missed Malik, but would never admit it.

Sunbul spoke next, "we are desert flowers, concubines put here for the assassins to do as they wish. You know the rumour carries that you, gypsy, were meant to be one of us?"

"No," Aasha breathed, "I had not known that." And Sunbul looked to be her age, too. Could it be possible that in an alternate reality, Sunbul would be her Nadia? What would happen if Aasha became a concubine, not even worthy of the Order's notice? Would Malik possibly respect her or even come to seek her out for friendship, or would her role define her? _Would she be too impure for his respect?_

Sunbul had striking green eyes. "They sell us to slavery when we become too old for the men's fancy, and if we grow round with child, we are beaten until the child slips from between our legs. Many a sister has died from this."

Nadia put a hand over her mouth, horrified. When the courtesans left on their missions, they were given a small amount of crushed acacia herb to drink and slather on their openings so that they might not become big with child should they lay with their targets. It made sense that the medicine was too expensive to be distributed in large doses to concubines. It was cheaper and easier to beat them until they miscarried, and replace them if needed. Of course Nadia, too, had heard the harsh rumours as a child that the gypsy witch was to be made a concubine. When she became friends with Aasha, she never told the girl, not wanting to strain their tentative friendship. And then later, when it became clear that Al Mualim intended her to become a spy, there was no need to tell her.

But now Nadia faced the reality that the concubines were much like them, and the two of them could have just as easily become concubines themselves.

"It's a difficult life we live," Sunbul tilted her head up and blinked rapidly, "we are not really living at all, actually. So it would give me pleasure to see the two of you live at least, you who are my sisters and made of the same flesh and bones."

"Sunbul," Durriyah warned her, "We cannot help them."

"If you have a key…" Nadia began, to which Izzah bit back that _there was no key_. They never had a key to begin with.

"Oh," Nadia huffed. Then what was the point of all this, if the concubines could not get them out?

"Wait," Sunbul motioned to them, and rose from her cushions to stride to a flower patch… There was a gardening spade plunged into the dirt there. With great effort, she pulled it from the earth and approached the gate. Durriyah helped her line the spade with the edge of the lock, and the two women heaved with struggle as they brought the spade's handle down.

The lock broke, and the gate swung open.

"Go," ordered Sunbul, "go find the man you love and revel in your freedom. Keep us in your hearts and should the siege be quelled, come speak with us once in a while."

"You should hide," Nadia motioned to the discreet opening to the fortress' safe place, covered by moss and vines.

The concubines all shook their heads no, "we'd rather die surrounded by beauty and light than encircled by darkness."

* * *

The Templars kept coming, and Altair threw himself into the fight for Masyaf. He cut down one knight after the other, saving civilians as he went.

He had half a mind to die here for his failures at Solomon's Temple. His own safety be damned, he unleashed a fury like no other on the invading Templars. He desperately wished –no, he _prayed_- to be wounded heavily by their blade, to die here in protecting Masyaf. Perhaps then he'd be absolved of his sins, and Al Mualim would forgive him. Maybe Malik would forgive him. No, that was impossible. Malik would probably desecrate his dead body and spit on his grave before he forgave him, if at all. Altair had done the unthinkable, and he had no one to blame but himself.

_Allah, let me die for my sins. _

But whether it was that Altair never prayed in the mornings, or his strength and skill was just too great… Altair suffered not a single wound. The assassin imagined Allah grinning down at him from above, forcing his blade and shielding him from injury just to watch him suffer the consequences of his actions.

It would be a waste to die here, though he deserved nothing better than death for what he'd done.

"Altair!" Rauf called to him amidst the chaos, himself overwhelmed by Templars at all sides, "we are vastly outnumbered-" he deflected a blow of a shield and countered the swing of a sword, "we must draw back and protect the fortress!"

"I hear you, brother," Altair called back, his tongue lingering on the 'brother', as if unsure he still had to right to call him such. Of course Rauf knew now what had transpired, but the other assassin showed no animosity towards him. _Not yet,_ Altair surmised, _not when his life is still tied to mine._

They turned tail and fled from the invading Templars, sprinting at top speed to reach the fortress gates. Let them come.

Rauf pulled Altair back, "brother, over here," he led them both around the fortress to its back, where he pointed to a high watchtower platform made of wood and bolts, "we've planned a surprise for our guests. I must secure the fortress, hurry and reach that platform! You'll know what to do."

Nodding, Altair broke away from Rauf and scaled the platform with ease, his body sore from exertion but still filled with energy pumping through his blood. The wood splintered beneath his hands, and his sweat caused him to lose his grip more than once. But at last, he found himself heaving and gasping and standing on the platform.

_Ah._

Here he could see Robert's army, gathered outside the fortress. When he looked ahead, he saw Al Mualim's striking grey eyes piercing his skull from a balcony of the fortress. The Grand Master blinked once, motioned with the slightest movement of his head to the beam leading from Altair's platform. Altair nodded his understanding, and Al Mualim turned to Robert, "we meet again, old friend!"

"Heretic!" Robert shouted, his Arabic laced with heavy Frankish, "return what you have stolen from me!"

"You've no claim to it, Robert! Take yourself from here before I'm forced to thin your ranks further!"

"You play a dangerous game," the Grand Master of the knights threatened, "a game I have deigns to end!"

"I assure you," Al Mualim laughed, "this is no game!"

Robert paused a moment, and then nodded to one of his officers. "So be it! Bring forth the hostage!"

Before their very eyes, a novice assassin was brought forth, bound by rope and wire. The boy refused to cry, refused to shout, not even when a knight kicked him in the stomach. He looked to Al Mualim and there in his eyes was unwavering devotion. Al Mualim watched the blade descend on his neck, watched his head roll.

Robert was unnerved by Al Mualim's lack of reaction. He'd expected anger, frustration, maybe even desperation, but not this silence. "Your village lies in ruins and your stores are hardly endless! How disciplined will your men be when the wells run dry and their food is gone?"

"My men do not fear death," Al Mualim ground out, "they welcome it, and the reward it brings!" He looked to Altair again, his face twisted in anger. "Altair! Show these fool knights what it is to have no fear! Go to God!"

Robert's men noticed him then, and pointed at the platform on which Altair stood. "What's he doing? He's mad!"

With no hesitation whatsoever, Altair flung himself off the high beam and fell into the air's empty embrace.

_Leap of Faith._

Falling was never the problem for Altair. In fact, he liked to fall. He knew that once his feet left the ledge, there was nothing he could do, and he was completely at God's mercy. Falling was never the problem for Altair; when he fell he was most at peace. It was only when he came back to the earth that caused all the suffering. Landing in a thick bale of hay some distance away and out of sight of the Templars, Altair could still hear the Franj men panicking, "he's killed himself! By the Virgin Mary, Mother of God, these assassins are animals!"

He was unharmed of course, and rolled out of the hay with a practiced flourish. He knew now what his purpose was. Jumping from that watchtower put him in distance of another, and this one had the means to literally squash the Templar army.

* * *

She heard his screams before she saw his person, and they tore her in two. She'd never heard Malik in such pain. Nadia and Aasha rounded the corner and into the infirmary, where was hit first with the stinging smell of narcotic, alcohol, and hashish. There was Malik, lying in the middle of a collapsed cot, writhing and thrashing in agony. He was naked from the waist up, and Aasha immediately diverted her gaze. It was not only because he was bare chested, it was also the sight of his mangled arm that was just _too much_. If it was not attached to Malik by the shoulder, she would not have been able to tell it an arm. One of the healers saw her dawdling at the doorway, and was unsure of whether to make her leave or to put her to use.

"Spy," the healer called to her, motioning her to come closer, "cover your eyes- no, don't bother, not now. Come clear up this space! Courtesan, go and find more bandages!" He was occupied with applying pressure to the area just below Malik's left shoulder, where the flesh was swollen and turning purple with infection. The wounded assassin was in a state of delirium, not even recognizing Aasha when she knelt next to him to clear the bloodied cloths away. He'd arrived at Masyaf with his wounds already infected; it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to frenzy. Nadia scurried off to find more supplies, not just for Malik but for the steady trickle of wounded assassins now filling the infirmary.

One healer said to another, "his arm is entirely senseless. No reaction from anything, not fire, not the prick of a needle. And when I break the skin of his hand, it does not bleed."

"We have no choice then," the other resolved, "we must save his life, even if it cripples him."

_What?_ Aasha could not even react in time before a crude looking saw meant for breaking wood was brought over the swell of Malik's bicep…

"No!" Her cry was shadowed by Malik's feral howl of pain, his entire body arching away from the saw literally slicing his flesh and breaking his bone. One of the healers pressed a cloth drenched in narcotic over Malik's face, but it did not work fast enough. Tears streamed from the assassin's clenched eyelids and his whole body shuddered with the torment before finally going still.

The saw stopped its work, and what was once Malik's left arm fell away. It just… _fell off_. It was something out of a dream to Aasha, who had never seen a cripple before, never seen a man with just one arm. Was he still a man? She stared and stared at the broken form on the cot, covered with a thin sheen of sweat and looking terrifyingly pale. This was a mauled, disfigured _thing_ that she now barely recognized. Was this person still Malik? What he still a person, or was he a thing now? If a man lost an arm, he was no longer whole.

What would happen to him, now? She stared for a long time, just looking at that… that stump where the rest of Malik's arm once was. The healers worked rapidly around her, pressing down on the stump and applying pressure to stop the bleeding, wrapping it with thick cloth around and around. Aasha felt like her consciousness slipped from her body, like she was no longer herself but a restless spirit watching over life in the mundane world.

Malik had bled all over his trousers as well, and the healers cut the ruined cloth away. Aasha saw all of him then. This was not the first time she saw a man down there, after all. She was there when Abdul took his pleasure from Radha, but she only saw fragmented forms and things catching on dim light… And it hadn't meant anything to her at the time. Now the sight of Malik so uncovered made the bile rise to her throat. She didn't want to see him like this, and yet she could not look away from that part of him that was most sacred and private.

The healers reached for help, muttering for someone, _anyone_, to get him a fresh pair of trousers and some dignity in the middle of this great loss… And then they finally remembered she was there, and swore in Arabic, "cover your eyes, woman!"

* * *

_End of Chapter 10. (Long chapter is long.)_

* * *

In which a woman's identity and respectability is determined by her role and standing- and what happens when your own standing is called into question? I felt compelled to write the concubines because they intrigued me so much- women who existed for the sole purpose of pleasuring assassins. And what happens when Aasha realizes that her life so far was a transient product of another's decisions, that she could have easily been one of the very women whom she scorned? And indeed, what could happen now between she and Malik? Everything has changed- indeed, what makes a man?

Also to be mentioned is the fact that back then people by large had no true idea of what actually caused pregnancy. Therefore contraceptives were tentative, herb or superstition based, and mostly ineffective.

Not sure if many of you picked up, and I'd be disappointed if you didn't, but the two Dom who tended to Altair were Aasha's brothers** Mudhil and Amir,** mentioned in the first chapters. Omar is her father, as mentioned in chapter 1.

_The next chapter will probably surprise most of you._ Just saying. Fragmentation grenades are also ridiculously awesome. Just saying. **Please review if you read and let me know your thoughts- they are highly appreciated and keeps the story's cogs well oiled. Thanks! C: **


	11. Image 363: Mistress Khitan

_Kadar shook with fear, the terrifying red crosses coming closer and closer and… even closer still. He was indecisive, unsure of how to best approach this sort of attack, too untrained to react. He was a novice still, and did not even have a suitable weapon to defend himself. _

_Malik had to rush to his aid, deflecting the knights' blows and shouting desperately for him to run. And this Kadar did, but instead of running for the way out, he made for the treasure. He could not be a coward! He scaled the rubble with struggle, the breath leaving him quickly when he was at last able to clutch the thing in his clammy hands. He would show Altair that he could do it- he would show his brother, too! _

_"Leave it!" Malik screamed when he saw what he was doing, "do not- ugh!" A knight slashed him across the waist, and blood seeped from the wound. It was not deep, but Kadar still shouted for Malik, "brother! Are you alright?!" He held the thing under his arm and nearly tumbled down the heap of rock and wreckage. _

_"He's got the treasure!" Robert de Sable was fully armoured now, and pointed the tip of his sword to Kadar, "get him!" _

_"Kadar!" Malik was helpless as the knights attacking him stopped their onslaught and turned their attention to his defenseless brother, "Kadar, run! Over here!"_

_The novice's eyes darted around wildly, trying to find his brother among the knights coming his way with their swords raised high. When at last he focused on Malik, his legs were already dead tired and heavy as bricks. Using his speed and dexterity to his advantage, Kadar weaved his way past the lumbering knights weighed down by their armour. "Brother!"_

_Deflecting more blows, Malik used his sword to slice one knight's neck straight through. When the weapon caught itself in the man's armour, Malik let go and dispatched his hidden blade, stabbing another knight in his unprotected eye. The adrenaline coursed through him heady and strong, and as soon as the path was somewhat clear he clutched at Kadar and ran for cover. They sprinted in the direction in which they came, making their way up the steep platform with the treasure in tow. Robert shouted in harsh Frankish, and the sound of men clamouring after them was heard. _

_The assassins ran mindlessly, the structure of the temple having flown from their minds in this moment of panic. The knights were hot on their trail, some of them having even dispersed in hopes of running into them. _

_The passages of the temple were dark and strewn with debris. Every so often Malik and Kadar tripped. _

_"There!" Kadar motioned to a stack of logs and brick leading up to an opening in the wall. Most likely this was a hole in the temple that was meant to be made into a window, the piles of wood and stone meant to become a staircase. Through the open hole, sunlight cascaded down onto the dusty ground. Also through the hole, they could see a bit of earth and grass. The assortment of logs and brick made no steady platform, but if the assassins could get on top of it, they could climb out to freedom._

_"It looks loose," Kadar noticed that the ropes holding the logs together looked old and worn. But with the knights so close after them, Malik decided that they had no other choice. They had to climb this thing._

_"Go, go, go!" _

_Dutifully following his brother's orders, Kadar put one foot on the lowermost log and heaved himself up, the treasure still held tightly under his cramping arm. Malik did the same, but as soon as his weight was added to the stack, the ropes holding the logs together suddenly burst. The two assassins lost their footing immediately as the wood rolled out under them, and Malik looked up for a split second to see the pile of bricks settled on the logs slowly come free…_

_He shouted, but heard no voice. He heard the heavy bricks, some small like the palm of his hand and some big like doors, come tumbling down. He tried to run, but he found no footing. His hands reached out to grasp something- anything, but it was too late. His breath left him and his vision flashed white, he hit the ground and steeled himself for death._

_The logs rolled, crushed them, the slabs of stone fell. _

_Malik died for a few moments, and then came back to life. He was too afraid to open his eyes, and could not believe he was still alive. He moved to clutch his spinning head with both hands, but one hand went up to touch his face. Where was the other?!_

_Instinctively, he snapped his dizzied gaze to look to his right side, and there he saw his right arm crushed under a great pile of rubble. Strange, because he felt next to no pain. _

_The lack of pain allowed Malik to remember… "Kadar?!" Malik strained his neck in search of his brother, "Kadar!"_

_A soft groan caught his attention, and what he saw brought forth agony like no other exploding deep in his chest. There was Kadar, his little brother, the boy who'd laughed and sang and played with him. There was Kadar, his head split by some sharp impact and bleeding from his ears, from his eyes, from his mouth. There was Kadar, half of whose body was squashed under a mountain of log and rock. When he breathed, blood gushed from his mouth. _

_Malik was screaming uncontrollably, but all that came out were whimpers. No… no no no no no! He pulled at his mangled arm, not caring if he was making the injury worse. Eventually it came free, and all the pain swallowed him whole. Blood blossomed on the white cloth as soon as the pressure was lifted, but he could not think of himself, not when his brother was dying. Malik dragged himself to Kadar, his flesh and bone, the boy he loved above all else, and sobbed grievously. The novice was barely conscious, his eyes rolling back and forth and blinking out rivulets of blood. His mouth moved like he was trying to say something, but no sound came forth. _

_"Brother…" Malik cupped Kadar's wet cheek with his one working hand, "please, don't leave me. Don't go, please…! I love you so!" He'd failed him- he'd failed to protect Kadar… Kadar had been the one to think clearly, had seen the danger in the worn rope. But no, Malik had not listened. _

_The younger man gave no response, and Malik wailed, not caring if he was making them both known to any knights in the area. His pain was too great. Nothing mattered in this instant except his brother, who was dying before him._

_"I cannot lose you," the assassin cried, tears coming freely, "no, no!" _

_With one last violent shudder, Kadar drowned in his own blood. His eyes grew wide for a moment, and then all the life fled from them. The treasure he died to obtain rolled out from his slack fingers, clanging against something metallic behind Malik. _

_…Allah have mercy. _

_Malik spun around and tried to stand, but was still too weak to. His own arm was now bleeding profusely, and his vision swam in and out from the nausea. _

_A Templar knight, instantly recognizable by the horrible red cross on his chest. _

_"Mercy," he choked, surprising himself. He wanted desperately to live now; he needed to deliver this treasure to Masyaf so that Kadar would not die in vain. He could not die here, though he knew he was now no match at all for this knight that stood before him. "Mercy, please," he sobbed, wracking his mind for the Frankish equivalent… He knew how to say 'please' in Frankish, and so he tried that. "S'il vous plait!" It sounded hideous coming from his mouth, the words drenched in his thick Arabic accent. _

_The knight removed his helmet and serenely blinked once, then twice. He looked down to the blood stained 'treasure' at his plate boots, to him nothing more than a gold artefact inlaid with jewels. He turned his sights to the dead assassin, his life force crushed out of him. And then there was the one still alive, and begging for him to spare his life. _

_He was a knight, sworn by duty to God. He knew no other way, had no other choice. He raised his sword-_

_-and sheathed it in one fluid motion. He turned to leave, but the Saracen –the idiot- grabbed a fistful of his cloak. _

_"You- you…" Malik could not believe his ears, and thought maybe his eyes were deceiving him. "I don't… I don't understand." _

_The knight shook his head, "in the name of God the Merciful, we are not enemies at this time. I know not why you are here nor why you are being chased, and I seek no conflict with you." He spoke perfect Arabic, causing Malik to sputter. The man before him had hair the color of wheat, eyes the spirit of the sky, but he spoke in his tongue as if he were Saracen. He shook his head rapidly and blinked, but the Franj was still a Franj._

_"But… I am Saracen," the assassin slurred, stumbling to his feet and leaning on the very mountain of debris that killed his brother, "and… and you are… a knight of the Temple."_

_Said knight shifted on his feet, "I see you assassins like to state the obvious." _

_Malik could not make himself understand. Surely there was some catch, surely he was about to be killed now. "But if you are a knight… you must kill me." _

_A laugh. "As I have said, I seek no conflict with you at this time. Consider these words from your own scripture, the words which the Prophet Mohammed, may peace be with Him, spoke: 'Take not another's life, for God has declared it Holy, except in a righteous cause'. For now, I see no righteous cause to kill you. I do not know enough of what has happened here to understand why you should die, so I have no choice but to let you live." _

_"But it is your duty!" _

_The knight frowned, "do you wish to die, assassin? I have no such duty today. I came under orders to take stock of the temple, not to slay assassins." _

_"But Robert de Sable…"_

_"Ah, my Grand Master? I have not seen him. If he is here, it is a coincidence. Go now, assassin, before he comes and gives me cause to kill you. The Lord Jesus Christ has spared your life, not I." _

_With that, Malik grappled for the treasure and tried to hold it the best he could with his right arm, but found he could not climb to freedom like so. Under the knight's watch, Malik swiftly tied the treasure to his belt with a bit of burst rope he found, and used his right arm to drag himself up the wreckage. The stones were tight under his hand, and he did not lose his footing once. In the back of his mind, he imagined Kadar's spirit guiding his hand, filling him with unfound strength and the desire to live on. _

_Kadar… He looked down to where his brother lay dead, and was startled to see the knight kneeling over him. "Don't-"he began, and then trailed off when he realized the Franj was closing Kadar's eyes. This was something he should have done, as his brother. Again, a testament of Malik's failure. He blinked away the tears again stinging at his eyes and kept climbing. _

_"Thank you," he called to the knight when he was at last kissed by the fresh breath of liberty, "I know not who you are…" he trailed off, a faceless identity unexpectedly coming to mind. A knight who spoke the tongue of the Saracens, who understood the Qur'an… Who was this? Somehow he felt like he should know this man… maybe he'd heard about such a person somewhere, but he could not remember. _

_The Franj contemplated the accusation. "…And I sincerely hope we do not meet again. Safety and peace, my unknown foe and friend." And then he put on his helmet and once again became a faceless infidel, striding out of Malik's line of sight. His heathenish white cloak trailed with sickening grace behind him._

_With a newfound sense of urgency, Malik willed his legs to carry him forward. He found two horses roped to a post… His and Kadar's. Altair's horse was missing. The thought that Altair was safe, had fled, and had left them to die filled Malik with fury. He cut the animal's ties and flung himself awkwardly onto the beast's saddle with one arm. The other arm was dead and useless at his side, and was sending pounding swells of pain up his shoulder and into his head. Spurring forward with passion, his focused on two thoughts that consumed him: one, to return to Masyaf; second, to slowly break each and every one of Altair's bones and have him scream himself hoarse. _

* * *

Robert's army retreated once Alair unleashed a torrent of felled logs at them from the heavens. The fortress was not taken; the concubines breathed a sigh of… not quite relief, not quite disappointment.

Mistress Khitan emerged from the fortress safehouse and saw the broken lock at its gate. She said nothing, just gave thanks that they were not found. She did, however, notice the disappearance of a certain spy and courtesan. "Where are they?" She barked at Sunbul, who shrugged her dainty shoulders. Khitan guessed, and the concubines all looked the other way at the accusation.

At least Aasha was no traitor, though disregarding her direct orders at such a dangerous time called for penalty of its own. Ever since the girl came to them on a midsummer day, Khitan knew she would be trouble. She just _didn't understand_…! Over time, Rani the Dom girl grew into Aasha the spy, but still Khitan was heavily disquieted by the secret knowledge in her eyes, her gypsy roots. A woman like that did not belong in the Order.

The Mistress furrowed her brows, her thoughts focused on Aasha even while arranging the rest of the women into rows for counting and inspection. Something had to be done about her before she brought fourth ruin to Masyaf. Her work at the Templar fortress might have temporarily saved Masyaf, but she also established the assassins as a notable threat to the Crusaders. It was common knowledge among the Franj that the death of many of their best knights were caused by assassin spies, and one could argue that Aasha's work there had done more long term harm than good.

She couldn't even explain clearly to herself why she so desperately wanted Aasha gone, of all people. There were women here who were more troublesome than she was, but everything about her gave Khitan shivers.

"What will you do with Altair?" The Mistress caught up with Al Mualim later in the night, when things had quieted down considerably. Still many citizens of Masyaf crowded the infirmary, fires had to be put out, and houses rebuilt… Robert de Sable had left his mark on the town and fortress. But in the dark of the night Al Mualim found solace.

He was tired, his old bones creaking, and had little patience left for Khitan. The old man needed to rest, and all of his efforts were currently focused on getting up the stairs to his chambers. Despite popular belief, he was not a mystic; he was just an old person trying to do his work the best he could. The events of the day had drained him completely- Malik losing an arm, Kadar dying, Altair having betrayed them and yet been the key to their victory against the Templars this day… It was all too much.

"I have stripped him of his rank," he replied, groaning with the exertion of finally having climbed the high staircase. "And his work in regaining it will teach him humility."

Mistress Khitan, who was not nearly so tired and was able to keep up with Al Mualim with little strife, was not happy at this. "He should be dead, Grand Master."

And this comment upset Al Mualim for three reasons: one, because it was true. Two, because even so he could not deny the attachment he had with Altair, all the efforts and resource he'd invested to see him succeed. And lastly, despite his own reservations he still did the thing that was expected of him, spilling Altair's blood for his sins.

…And yet, Allah brought him back to life. Altair did not die from a wound that surely should have killed him. Al Mualim did not dare challenge Allah, and hence allowed Altair to live and redeem himself. Or perhaps it was not a matter of challenge, but just himself holding onto whatever excuse he had for keeping the man alive and by his side. It was impossible for him, as the Grand Master of the Order, to not develop attachments to the assassins he raised. And with Altair, Al Mualim's attachment to him ran even before he was born. Umar Ibn-La'ahad, Master Assassin, had been a close friend and disciple of Al Mualim. His spirit lived on in his son, Altair.

"You will see the fruit of my actions soon enough," he promised Khitan, taking pains to be as courteous as he could. If he had been a little more tired, a little more rankled, he would've just ordered her away. But as it was, his and Khitan's history ran many decades back. He found her deserted by the side of a country road, beaten by her husband for not bearing him children after one entire year. She begged him to take him away, and she had been so beautiful- what could Al Mualim do? He was not yet old at that time, and she was just barely a woman. She was not very intelligent, but at least she was literate to a small extent. She took a keen interest in Al Mualim's texts and soon the man himself. She swore her loyalty to him in return for him to keep her under his wing.

The Grand Master, then nothing more than a man with big dreams and connections, allowed her into his life and taught her what he knew. He also understood without a doubt that Khitan would allow him to take his pleasure from her if he'd so desired. He refrained from doing so not for her sake, but for his own. In his experience, as soon as a man bedded a woman, so much more was expected of him. And he did not know if he could offer her what she might want in return. He was, first and foremost, a fair and compassionate man, but he was not a lover to anyone.

She promised him that she was not barren, that her womb was ready to receive his seed and give him an heir. But Al Mualim was not interested in an heir. He knew too much, had too much responsibility as the Order began to grow, and to put all this strain on the shoulders of a newborn was unthinkable. He could not subject his seed to the curse of being the Grand Master's Son, and so he flung himself into teaching others and their children. In this way, he did not yearn for his own child- not when he had thirty or forty already to take care of.

Khitan had been by his side as be built the Order, offering compassion, support, and a sharp jab of reason when he needed it. During the days when all went well, she revelled in his joy. And on those nights whereby nothing went as planned, when it seemed his dreams were at the edge of collapse, she pulled him back with soft words. She was the only one he allowed to speak to him so closely, and to enter his quarters at night when all others were barred. He never bedded her as a man should a woman, but in a way he sensed it was not necessary. Now they were both old and useless. Al Mualim lost his strength and virility, and Khitan stopped her monthly bleedings. In a way, they'd both outlived their use to the world. The Order and their role within it was all they had left.

They were man and wife in spirit, and the Order was their child.

It was her inner strength that inspired him to bring women into the Order. Al Mualim owed much of the Order's success to her, and so it was the least he could do to not be snide in his remarks.

"I have chosen to give him a second chance."

Khitan shifted on her feet, "and what of Malik?"

Malik was a completely different matter. With his left arm gone, he could no longer be an assassin. The man was still caught by fever, but the healers advised the Grand Master that he would live. If it were anyone else- Abbas, Rauf, perhaps even Nasir, Al Mualim would have dismissed them from the Order. But as it was Malik who had brought back the treasure, the mystical piece of Eden that granted such immense and volatile power. Al Mualim could not just cast Malik aside. "I will have him replace the Dai at Jerusalem."

"…That's a wise choice." The Dai at Jerusalem was aged and becoming senile. It would be a good change to have a fresh young man taking charge of the Bureau there. And Malik was a capable student, more than able to take over the academic aspects of the role. To be a Dai was to be something like a Master Assassin; it was a _promotion_, just on a different ladder of the Order. "But he has one arm, Grand Master. How will he perform his duties?"

Al Mualim considered all he knew of Malik, scrutinizing his attitudes and dreams and wishes… "He will not want to be useless to the Order. His loyalty is great and unwavering… Malik Al-Sayf will find a way." It would be difficult, of course. The duties of a Dai were many. They acted as healers for wounded assassins, were charged with keeping the Bureau well stocked, sometimes had to leave the Bureau to meet with informers or other Rafiqs. Then on top of that, they had to take care of themselves. Al Mualim had no doubt that Malik would carry out the work given to him by the Order, but by doing so it was possible that the man would work himself to death.

Khitan voiced his thoughts, "he will need an assistant."

This was a problem. An assistant would help things greatly, but this whole situation was a headache. Malik would need to bathe himself, dress himself, buy foodstuffs, cook, make maps, keep ledgers, help assassins, and somehow still keep himself physically and mentally stable. With just one arm, an injured ego, and the mental trauma of having seen his brother die, he really could not trust him with such responsibility. It was obvious that the man would need an assistant. "But he will be too proud to take one. Crippled or not, Malik is prideful. He strives to prove himself at all times, and will not allow another man's aid."

"…What about a woman?"

He knew this tone from her. Khitan was scheming something. Knowing the argument might already be lost, Al Mualim asked, "who do you have in mind?"

The old woman's eyes glimmered with mirth, "give Malik your _hope_."

This argument began ten years ago. "_Aasha?_ I cannot tether one of my best spies to Jerusalem and expect her to make herself most useful there." However, he could not say he did not expect this from the Mistress.

"She is barely your _best spy_," Khitan countered, "we have many excellent spies to sing our praises of. In any case, do you not agree that it is of utmost importance to have the Jerusalem Bureau running smoothly?"

"I… yes." Al Mualim lumbered into his quarters and sat himself at his desk, ill lit by an old oil lamp. He motioned for Khitan to close the door after her, and his tired eyes were mesmerized for a moment by the sheer number of books and scrolls that lined his shelves. One of the windows had broken, a sizable rock lying obnoxiously on his floor surrounded by shards of glass. A reminder of how close Masyaf had come to being taken. He could not be bothered with this tonight, and instead sought to enjoy the hollow echoing of the wind outside. He was nearly beside himself with exhaustion, and knew he could not win this argument. All he wanted now was for Khitan to leave him alone so he might retreat into sleep's loving embrace.

"And you see no better man than Malik to replace the Dai there?"

"…That is right…"

"And surely you know how enamoured he is of your little pigeon girl, hm?"

There was no point to denying this. "…Yes…" The fact was plain as day, and Al Mualim scoured his mind for any reason –any at all- to keep Aasha here. He could not think clearly at this time, and especially not when Khitan was pushing her own twisted logic at him.

"Then would it not be an excellent idea to send her there to support him? I know Malik as well as you do, Grand Master, and he would gut any other assistant you send him. But to her, he would listen. By holding his admiration, she holds power over him."

"…I can't just send her there in hopes she could… _seduce_ Malik into working…"

"This isn't about seduction, Grand Master," Khitan purred, both hands snaking up to Al Mualim's shoulders and kneading the tight muscles there, "it's about giving your man what he needs to succeed."

Al Mualim was silent.

Khitan continued, her hands expertly working to untangle the knots in the base of the old man's neck, "and besides, the Franj are upon us once again. Jerusalem will be made a hotspot for activity. And you know that Aasha has experience with the Templars… Let her be his advisor, let her go on missions Malik assigns, and most importantly of all, let her be the soothing balm to his ache."

_Soothing balm to his ache, indeed._ The decision came and went, Al Mualim's grunt of approval sealing Aasha's fate. Satisfied, Mistress Khitan helped Al Mualim to his bed, on which he collapsed unceremoniously. For now, Al Mualim, the Old Man of the Mountains, was just Rashid ad-Din Sinan, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. He would take up his role again as Grand Master of the Assassin's Order the next day, when things made a little more sense.

* * *

"These are mine?"

Mistress Khitan paused in her work, the familiar voice casting her mind back to a time when its owner was no more than a tiny girl.

Rani… no, _Aasha_, had turned the pair of worn rawhide boots around and around, admiring its fashion that was so completely different from the sandals of her childhood. She'd seen men wear them sometimes, but never women. The material felt good under her hands; even though she could tell it was not new and had definitely seen better years.

When the girl dared to ask if the shoes were hers, Khitan slapped her hand, eliciting a whimper. "No, child… Nothing is yours here."

"Nothing is mine?" she had repeated dimly. "I don't understand."

And then Khitan had to explain to her that she now belonged to the Order, and as such she would never have any personal belongings to speak of. The girl was simple minded then, and accepted the fact without truly understanding the consequences of her consent.

But today, Aasha was a woman. Khitan struggled to pull herself from her misty reverie to answer her question. She didn't feel very well today. Maybe her age was finally catching up with her. "Yes, those are yours. I picked them out for you myself."

Like how she did when she was younger, the spy studied the packages wrapped in parchment that was to become her new outfit. Tied together neatly with lengths of string, they looked innocent enough. She untied and unfolded the smallest package to reveal a_ hijab_ head wrap.

"I see," she nodded her approval, blinking her eyes rapidly. The headscarf was beautiful, and the quality of it surprised her. Firstly, it was made of silk; Aasha had never worn such a precious material. Always, the dress of the assassins and spies were made of cotton and linen, and only the most skilled courtesans were worthy to dress in silks. Even the concubines in the gardens wore thin but rough makeshift silks. The scarf she held now was black as night and just as light, shot through with strings of gold and silver. This was not the _hijab_ of a poor woman. She could not look away from it. When she at last raised a hand to her face in wonder, she noticed Khitan's expectant gaze.

"Well?" The Mistress put both hands on her hips and swayed from side to side, biting one side of her cheek. It actually looked like she… _cared._

"I-" Aasha's voice caught in her throat. "It's gorgeous, _uma_."

The two were alone in the Mistress' chambers, and being allowed in here was a privilege for Aasha. Always she was given her mission attire by the Order's supply and clothing holds, and so when she was invited here she already felt something was amiss. And now the two women were standing in front of the Mistress' bed, such a private and secret place, pouring over fine silks like mother and daughter.

"Open the rest," Khitan ordered softly, "there is a _jilbaab_ here as well, to cover you in public as Allah instructs."

"Yes, Mistress."

Aasha did as she was told, opening the other package to examine the simple cloak which would hide all her body save for her face and hands. It became clear to her that for this mission she would not be expected to fight, run, climb, or perhaps even speak to a man. She wished Khitan would tell her about her mission already. The unsure look on the older woman's face was disturbing her. "Mistress, what… what is all of this meant for?"

Khitan cleared her throat, running her fingers through the fine silk of the hijab on her bed. "Malik has been appointed Dai of the Bureau at Jerusalem."

The spy's eyebrows raised in false surprise. "That is good!"

This was knowledge she already possessed. Malik had been gone for two weeks now. At first no one knew where he was, but brothers and sisters returning from Jerusalem spread the word soon enough. It was strange that there was no ceremony held for his promotion to Dai… Usually when an assassin was promoted, a ritual or feast was held in his honour. A Dai was to the Order's scholarly branch what a Master Assassin was to the working branch. When Altair was made a Master, all the Order knew of it. The fact that Malik was made a Dai in hushed tones and rushed away in the night to Jerusalem as soon as he recovered made the situation seem somewhat suspicious. Already the rumours fled that Al Mualim promoted him out of pity, that Malik had no skill in scholarly work and would surely fail… On top of it all, he was a cripple.

By circumstance, Aasha never saw Malik again after watching his arm being so brutally cut off in the infirmary. And to be honest, she didn't know if she wanted to see him again. Yes, in a way she wanted to see him to show her support and understand that he was alright… but what if he was not alright? What if he became a different person? What if_ she_ became a different person, after seeing the part of him that was meant to be covered? Could Malik look in her eyes and know she'd seen him?

She would be ashamed to see him again.

In her mind, Malik was still the strong and healthy man with two arms and two legs. He still smiled with cockiness; his eyes still glinted with secret laughter. Seeing him again without an arm would shatter all of this. Of course, the Dom knew that one day they would meet again, and the awkward moment would come in which they had to decide what was between them now that so much had changed. For this, Aasha was afraid of where this conversation was leading her.

Khitan seemed to share in her discomfort. She battled with her words for a moment before deciding to relay the mission in the simplest terms: "he needs an assistant."

If this news had come a month or two earlier, Aasha would have been beside herself with joy. Finally, she'd be able to legitimately spend time with Malik under the Order! But now with things as they were, she crumpled with dread and fear. "Mistress," she choked, "why me?" It wasn't just that she had no choice but to work with Malik now, it was also that she felt she was being punished for something. _What did she do wrong?_

"Because you are the only one who he will listen to," Khitan replied, keeping a remarkably calm expression plastered over her face. It had collected many lines over the years, and displayed them all proudly.

Aasha dropped the jilbaab she was holding like it was garbage, "what can I do to help him? I don't know anything about what a Dai does." She never reacted this way to a mission before, but _this _felt like no mission to her. This felt like the Order was pushing her out of its doors and shutting her away.

"…You won't need to help him in… in that way," the woman tried to explain, but her mouth fell dry. _Why?_ She'd wanted this girl gone since the beginning, but why was it so difficult now?

The realization dawned on Aasha, the fact that Khitan expected her to 'help' Malik in a way only a woman can 'help' a man. In a way, she understood. Malik was injured both physically and mentally, perhaps even spiritually. Some pains simply could not be dulled by hashish. Malik cared deeply for her, and so Al Mualim must have arrived at the conclusion that she could put him on the right track to recovery. "How long?" _How long would she have to do this for? _

Khitan didn't answer, a horrible knot growing at the base of her stomach. This whole situation was her orchestration, and yet it felt so wrong. Her logic made her so sure before, but now her intuition faltered at the fear revealed in Aasha's eyes. The old woman felt an uncontrollable urge to draw her into her arms and embrace her.

The urge was manifested in reality when at last the spy began to cry, "you want me to leave the Order and marry him." The tears fell with no restriction, and Khitan wound her arms awkwardly around the younger woman. Having not held another person in such an embrace in so long, the Mistress didn't even remember where to rest her hands. But when she gave into her instincts, she found her hands knew exactly where to go. One found itself gently bracing the back of Aasha's head against her as the gypsy cried into her collar, "what have I done wrong? Why are you casting me away?"

"I am not casting you away, child." Khitan found her voice finally, but the words came out harsh by habit.

Aasha looked her in the eye, a blatant show of disrespect, "you have always wanted me gone, Mistress. You have always looked down upon me. I knew it ever since I was a child… that you thought I was not worthy to be here." She rushed to catch the tears as they slipped from her swollen lids, "so this was your plan all along."

The words were true, and Khitan was not surprised that Aasha picked up on the Mistress' distaste for her. However, the spiteful way with which she'd accused her… The knot in her belly turned to a hard chunk of ice.

Aasha was sobbing now, her hands covering her entire face as her body heaved and buckled under the heavy sadness. Khitan guided her to her bed and left her there to wallow in her misery, the old woman moving with alarming speed to close all the windows and lock all the doors. Aasha steeled herself for the beating that was sure to come.

"You are right and you are wrong, my child," Khitan pried Aasha's hands away from her face, now stained wet with tears. When the gypsy opened her eyes, the woman she saw now could not be her Mistress. This strange woman settled herself on her knees, her joints protesting the entire way, and touched her so carefully. Her hair fell in dry lengths over her aged face, streaked with white. "You are right that I wanted you gone, but not because I thought you unworthy."

"No..?" Aasha wiped her nose with her sleeve, thoroughly embarrassed at herself for the emotional outburst. "Then why..?"

This time, Khitan's voice was soft and warm. "Because you were Dom, a girl of the desert, and you did not deserve to be subject to the laws of the Order."

That was unexpected, and Aasha's mouth dropped open in shock. "I don't understand."

Khitan closed her eyes slowly, the action forcing a fresh rivulet of tears coursing down her face like water breaking from a dam. "I don't either, my child."

Despite all the mixed feelings Aasha had harboured for this woman- admiration, fear, distrust, unwavering loyalty- she never thought she'd ever pity her. "Please, _uma_, don't cry," she tentatively set a hand on Khitan's shoulder, "will you please hold me again?"

The Mistress nodded, and when she struggled to rise to her feet, Aasha held her hands and helped her up. Together they sat on the edge of the bed and leaned against one another, the _disgusting_ silks and fabrics strewn all over the room. Having never known such love from the Mistress that seemed more like a spirit wandering the halls than a mother figure, Aasha could not help but cling to her. And Khitan, being once married and childless, clung to the younger woman in return.

"Years ago," she held Aasha to her breast, "I saw you running naked from the bathhouse. You were scared."

Blushing, the gypsy did not know how to respond. The condescending tone usually permeating the Mistress' voice was gone. "I'm sorry."

"No, _I_ am," Khitan lamented, "for it is I who took that blessed gift from you. I took you in and tore you from your freedom." She didn't feel this same way with the countless other apprentices she took in. Somehow, watching the gypsy girl slowly lose her roots heavily disturbed her. Rani had given away her life on a whim, without knowing the grandeur of the possibilities she was throwing away. To Khitan, taking in such a girl was not _right_.

Al Mualim didn't seem to understand. He never understood. She could never make him see how happy a child would have made her, how she longed for him to fill her belly with his child. He made his decision to bring women into the Order without consulting her. And suddenly, she was made a Mistress when she wanted nothing more than to be a mother. She hated all the young apprentices that came under her care; hated all of them because Al Mualim loved them like they were his own children, and _how dare he?_ What was so wrong with her that he'd rather love _other people's children_ than have her bear him children of his own?

And how dare he demand that these young women never have children? If he was using Khitan as an example that such a thing could be done, then he was an idiot. Khitan was never loyal to the Order; her only loyalties were to Al Mualim. Her love for him made her stupid enough to sacrifice her very purpose in life.

"I don't understand." Aasha could barely hear herself against the sound of Khitan's strained breathing. With her year pressed against the old woman's frail collarbones, she heard the sound of wild winds. "I don't understand- I am freer with the Order than I can ever be."

"You are wrong, child," Khitan kissed the top of her head, cradling Aasha in her arms like a precious thing. "You know within yourself that you yearn to discover the mysteries of life."

_No,_ Aasha would not let Khitan force her thoughts. These were things she'd blocked away long ago because thinking about them was dangerous. She wasn't ready to open her mind to these possibilities yet! "And I am to discover these mysteries of life as a wife to a cripple, with my head ever covered?" Malik was more than a cripple to her, and she didn't much mind to cover her hair, but this was beside the point.

Khitan looked stunned, "have you never wanted to become a _normal woman_ again?"

"I was never normal to begin with!" Furious, she grabbed the silk _hijab_ and held it up to Khitan's face. "I never knew this as a child. I never had to cover my face among others of my tribe. I was a desert girl, daughter of Omar Bin Haji and Sharma, who are forever lost to me now. I never wore _jilbaabs_. I could not return to my 'normal' life even if I'd wanted to! I've forgotten the names of my brothers! I have nothing left but my father's bead necklace that… you've… let me keep." Her angry diatribe trailed off, "you let me keep it."

She dropped the _hijab_, and again Khitan was crying fat tears. "Please take this opportunity, child, a chance for a different type of freedom." She was nearly desperate with how much she wanted her to _understand_. When Rani called her _uma _that first time, the moment she did so Khitan knew she was lost. Since then, she convinced herself she wanted the gypsy gone because she was unnatural, that she was a curse. Khitan still held this purpose in mind when she spoke with Al Mualim weeks prior, but now the truth she'd tried to push away tore to the surface. She never hated the girl.

Perhaps the other women of the Order would never have this chance. _Oh yes,_ Khitan knew all about their secret lovers in the cities, the men whom they loved but could not be with… Aasha was given this wonderful opportunity to finally be _free_, and yet she didn't see it!

"You are not being released from the Order, but… your direct allegiance will be to Jerusalem's Bureau."

_To Malik. _

Aasha sat there calmly for a few moments, letting the present sink into her bones. She forced the idea of marriage from her mind long ago, knowing she would never be able to live the life her sister might have had. Of course, she was not unaware that while the assassins could not marry, Rafiqs certainly could with little consequence. The Bureau leader at Acre had a wife once, and when she passed away he never took another. Sometimes he spoke of her longingly, but he rambled so often that Aasha never took cares to actually listen to what he said. The Dai at Damascus was courting a pretty little thing at this moment, trying to impress her with his painted pots and failing miserably at it.

And yet she never thought Malik could become a Dai.

And the only man she thought she'd ever have to answer to was Al Mualim.

She did very much care for Malik, but she could not see him as her husband. She could not see him as any woman's husband, just as she could not see herself as any man's wife.

Khitan stifled her sniffling beside her, looking very much overwhelmed. One could almost mistake that _she_ was the one about to get married.

"What does _he _think of this?" Does Malik even _want _to marry her?

Khitan looked strained. "Aasha, I am not sure if he even knows of this. Your work, you understand, is paramount to the Jerusalem Bureau's success. As it is, you must do whatever it takes to ensure Malik makes a quick recovery and is kept in good health in every way." She considered her words. "After all, Al Mualim has invested threefold in him what he has invested in you."

"Then I don't actually have to…?" It wasn't like she hadn't wondered about how he was faring. He never did strike her as one patient enough to keep ledgers all day like Jacques de Sonnac. The knight, too, was injured in such a way that kept him from battle and the honour that should have been his. In a twisted sort of way, the two men had much in common now. But where Jacques could get himself through the day most satisfactorily, Malik only had _one arm_. She supposed it was possible to adapt to living as a cripple, but this process probably took months and _years_. In that time, she might have dress him, treat his mangled arm, bathe him, perform general duties around the Bureau, accompany him on trips to the market.

"You must do whatever it takes," the Mistress repeated, rubbing her temples.

…She might even be called upon to warm his bed.

"You may always send a pigeon to us if there is anything you require, but I believe the Bureaus are all well-funded and should provide you whatever you need."

After a while, Aasha asked, "will I be able to ride horses still?"

The Mistress laughed bitterly- _of all the questions!_ "If Malik allows it."

Aasha worried her bottom lip, her brows creasing in concentration. Of course Malik would allow her to ride horses. "Could I still be friends with Nadia and communicate with my friends here?"

Again, the reply was the same. _If Malik allowed it._

"Oh," Aasha blinked serenely, looking at the palms of her hands that were rough with work and wear. They were not calloused and peeling like the men's hands, but they weren't soft and supple like married women's, either.

Acutely feeling the passage of time, Khitan rushed to say, "you will understand this later."

"I think I understand it now," Aasha rose from the bed to gather the garments that would become her daily outfit, "I think you're trying to stop me from becoming you."

The statement was cruel, a pointless and unnecessary jab at Khitan's already tenuous grasp of her role in this world. If she was not so drained and confused from her own revelations, she would've slapped the spy across the face for saying such a thing.

_You may hate me if you'd like,_ she spoke lovingly to Aasha in her mind, like she would her own daughter. The former-spy did not look at her again, pointedly working around her.

_You may hate me if you'd like, but I won't let you live on wondering of what could have been. _

Aasha was making for the door with quick and efficient steps.

_I won't leave you lost to your purpose, searching for a place in Paradise all alone. _

Wrenching the door open, Aasha glared long and hard at Khitan, no compassion or warmth whatsoever in her face.

_I love you, my child. _

The door slammed shut.

* * *

End of Chapter 11.

* * *

Because the concept of freedom is ever changing. Like it or not, arranged marriage and forced marriage was a norm back then, and traces of it still exist in some parts of the world today. It was mostly accepted and wasn't something to freak out or rebel against, contrary to popular belief and cliche.

Lots of revelations in this chapter. Woooh. I hope most of you remember enough from previous chapters to actually remember. I hope my OCs have made enough of an impact on you. **And again, if you've read, I'd appreciate some feedback or whatever on the chapter/story/unicorns. Thank you! C: **


	12. Image 378: Dai of Jerusalem

Al Mualim praised the garments Khitan picked out for her, and acted like he didn't know Aasha was being sent off to be a man's property.

Under the fragmented light spilling through the Fortress windows, he gave her a copy of their Holy Text, the Qur'an, and blessed her journeys. Aasha found this terrifyingly underwhelming, clutching the Holy Book in both hands and gazing upon the man she so revered and loved. For some reason, she thought herself special. She thought perhaps Al Mualim had some grand plans for her, and that she would at least go further than be made a Dai's assistant, though the position was not at all unfavourable. In a way, it was a promotion for her. But the promotion was like an insult, that she'd outlived her use as a spy.

This must be what Malik had felt, being made into Dai out of pity. And she would see him soon enough, and only hoped things were still the same between them. Any more change, and she would break with the pressure.

She debated asking him what she'd done wrong to deserve this, but decided against it. "I am ever loyal to you, Grand Master," she kissed his robes one last time and prayed, _prayed_ that he could hear the sincerity in her words. How desperately she still wanted to believe in him like Rani idolized him.

But Al Mualim didn't comfort her, didn't embrace her, and didn't even seem to care. She nodded politely to her, in a very detached manner. When she rose to leave, at last he seemed to come alive. "Wait."

Aasha froze, wondering if Al Mualim was going to change her fate, beg her to stay with the Order. Instead, the old man approached his desk, opened a low drawer and rummaged around for some time. He found a lacquered box carved with intricate lines, and presented it to Aasha. "As a gift, for you to keep."

Her heart surging up to her throat, Aasha did not want to touch this thing the Grand Master now offered her. Children of the Order had no possessions, and surely Al Mualim was making a point by giving this to her. Just to be sure, she cleared her throat and asked, "this is my possession?"

"It is yours," Al Mualim smiled warmly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Thank you, Grand Master." She tucked the Qur'an away and received the box with both hands. She sought to open the container, but Al Mualim put a hand on her shoulder and bade her stop.

"As you know, child, those of the Order are strangers to possession." As he spoke, Aasha felt herself wither away in fear that she'd just failed some sort of test. Al Mualim continued steadily, "everything that is yours is owned by the brotherhood. While your brothers owe me their lives, your sisters owe me their virtues. As an assassin's ties to the Order are cut from the moment he loses his life, so shall you be allowed to possess from the moment all of you is given."

He bade her leave then, but Aasha could not resist the question. She was burning with a hateful passion at his words, the box feeling too light to be a trade for 'all of her'. "If those of the Order are not meant to possess, why should Malik come to possess me?"

Al Mualim was stupefied by her audacity, and she saw it by the way his hand stopped halfway while stroking his long beard. "Why, child, he will never come to _possess_ you."

"If I give him my virtue, then he will have all of me. If I marry him," she spat the words to see if he would react; he didn't. "If I marry him, he will possess me as he does a piece of furniture, or a cow."

The Grand Master laughed, thoughtfully stroking his beard again. "I am sure Malik has more respect for you than he does for a cow. And in all seriousness, child, why do you believe I decided to send _you_ for this task?"

"Because he fancies me."

"He fancies many of the concubines as well. I could send a bunch of them to Jerusalem, and he could have a harem!"

Despite herself, Aasha giggled. It wasn't often that Al Mualim made an effort to be funny, and indeed the image was hilarious. She began to have hope again. Maybe Al Mualim held her in his pride after all; she was not something to be tossed aside on a whim. "Then why, Grand Master?"

"It is not only because Malik fancies you, but it is that he will never actually come to possess you. This I know, and in you I trust. A concubine could not challenge him as you would, and neither could anyone else."

"How can I make it so that he never possesses me?" _How could a woman marry a man and not be possessed by him? _She didn't think it possible.

The Grand Master bent forward and bade her rise. His hands were rough as sand but as sturdy as stone, and reminded Aasha of her father. When she was still a child, he carried her on his shoulders like a trophy. She never felt unsafe in his arms- could she feel safe in Malik's? _Oh, right. _Malik didn't even have two arms with which to hold her anymore. She shuddered involuntarily.

Al Mualim examined Aasha's full head of hair, her well-proportioned and tidy face, her modest breasts, and his eyes settled on her hips. They were not very wide for child bearing, and perhaps she would have some trouble, but they looked to be a good size under her narrow waist. Al Mualim felt no shame gazing upon her body, just as a father could commit no crime in looking at his daughter. His sights lingered, knowing that Aasha might soon have to cover her body should Malik request it. And then who would be there to behold her beauty?

"The secret, pigeon, is to hold your deepest secrets tight inside your heart. Lock it away, hide it. Let not Malik or any other man touch it." He waved his finger at her as he spoke, the words coming true and untainted from his integrity. "It is his right and power to enjoy your body's beauty, but he can never touch that which shines from within you. You are one of few in this Order who can accomplish such a thing. As a spy, your secret flame mesmerized your targets so much that they bestowed treasures upon you and spilled all their secrets. Do this, and you will always be yourself and child of the Order first and foremost; not a wife to a man."

Humbled by his sage advice, Aasha bowed her head low and blinked away her tears of thanks. She was so glad she had asked, so glad she'd taken that leap of faith. "Thank you, Grand Master. Safety and peace."

He smiled and returned the blessing, delighting in her newfound confidence.

Al Mualim knew the power of a strong woman better than any man. It was Khitan's inner radiance that caught his eye and trapped his heart since the day he met her, after all. He did not dare to lie with her for fear of the knowledge that he'd never truly completely possess her. She could bear him all the sons he wanted and yet she would be forever out of his reach. With Aasha, he'd seen much the same spirit in her. When she arrived at Masyaf's gates clad in bloodied clothes, she reminded him so much of Khitan that he had to take her in. Even if Khitan herself did not see the resemblance, Al Mualim found it to be his duty.

He actually found it a bit amusing that it was Khitan who suggested Aasha act as 'assistant' to Malik. It was as if her subconscious mind was aware but her conscious mind was not.

_So be it, then. Let Aasha be the soothing balm to Malik's ache, and let her also be the sting that reminds him of his loyalty. _

* * *

Nadia held her hand and walked with her to the gardens, where Aasha would say her final goodbyes to the concubines there. She'd already said her farewells to her friends and all others who would miss her. She told them all she'd be back, but in truth she couldn't be sure. But at least she would see them when they came to visit the Bureau at Jerusalem. When Nadia first heard about Aasha's new task, she was baffled but… not truly surprised. She felt more jealous than sad for the other woman, though.

To block her envy, she offered overly explicit advice without any shame whatsoever. The understanding that she knew more than Aasha about these matters reassured her. But Aasha was not intent on learning how she could keep a man interested. The concubines, too, could offer her little help. Pleasing Malik was not her concern. She was worried about something else.

Lying splendidly over her pile of cushions, Sunbul considered Aasha's question carefully. "I don't think anyone knows for certain what causes a woman's belly to swell with child. But once I threw a bunch of orange peels in the air, turned around three times this way, and splashed some water on my face. It seemed to have worked, since I have not conceived."

"That's not right," Fatima huffed, "I tried that, and it didn't work. It still hurts sometimes when I breathe."

"Maybe it's different for everyone," Sunbul shrugged. "And maybe Allah decides."

"Here," Nadia untied a pouch from her waist and pulled out a small jar of salve. "This is a paste made from crushed acacia shrub. It comes from Egypt, and if you soak a strip of linen in it and push it in yourself before he enters you, you will not grow big with child."

A little embarrassed, Aasha opened the jar and tentatively sniffed its contents. The cream smelled earthy, a little like the medicinal blends she swallowed to heal her illnesses as a child. The concubines stared at the salve with resentment, having never been offered such a luxury. They rarely ever heard of a pregnant courtesan, and even if they ended up with child, they were never beaten.

"I cannot take this," Aasha said as she passed it back to Nadia. "How will you explain its loss to the Mistress?"

"I can say I dropped it. A sister in need is just that." Nadia tried to shove it into her hands.

The gypsy finally opened her hands to accept the gracious gift, but the sight of Altair Ibn-La'ahad striding purposefully into the garden made them freeze. "How long are you women going to spend chatting away?"

"Are you my escort?" Aasha wasn't even aware that Altair was in Masyaf. The last she'd heard of him, he was out assassinating some men to redeem his rank. He really should be dead.

"Yes," Altair ground out in annoyance, "now let's get going before a two day trip turns into a three day pain in the ass."

"Silence, novice!" Nadia berated him, and then hooted with laughter. Even the concubines covered their mouths and laughed.

With his hood drawn over his face, all they could see of Altair's frustration was the deep scowl on his lips. Taking pity on him, Aasha drew her own hood up and kissed Nadia goodbye. The jar of salve was forgotten between them when Altair took hold of Aasha's forearm and tugged her along none too gently.

"Stop," she hissed at him, pulling herself from his grasp and kicking him in the shins as she did so. Altair did let go, but he kept moving at a brisk pace and dared her to keep up. As she followed after him, Aasha noticed the small things about Masyaf that she never paid mind to before. The patios overlooking the gardens were haunted by linen ghosts hanging limply on lines in the soft breeze. The kitchens were always roaring hot when she passed by, overflowing with the sounds of cooks shouting at each other. The smell of spiced lamb wafting out of the kitchen doorway made her mouth water. In the courtyard, assassins lounged about on reed mats drawing from tall brass _hookahs_. Some waved to her when she passed by, muttering goodbyes and wishes of luck.

"Malik is a good friend of mine!" one of them cried and waved his pipe around. "He likes almonds!" He burst out laughing, "I'll gladly cut off my own arm if it means I get a wife!"

Aasha blushed with mortification and tried to walk faster. As the days passed and she contemplated her future, Aasha became more and more torn.

They reached the stables in record speed, Altair immediately mounting a horse and riding onto the trail to the Kingdom. Aasha found Maymun and kissed him on his snout. The horse puffed warm breaths on her hair, making her laugh. The gypsy hung the bags containing her clothes and other things to Maymun's saddle and took her time getting herself into it. The stables stank of animal dung, blood, rotting fodder, and still she loved this place. Maymun clapped his hooves and started in a trot before Aasha gave the command, and she had to rein him in. She squeezed his flanks with her thighs and tittered with the joy of riding him again.

"You seem awfully happy," Altair commented when he made a lap back to pick her up. "I suppose I should congratulate you."

She had not yet decided how she should act with Altair, and so kept silent. After all, was he not the man responsible for Kadar's death and Malik's misfortune? Her lack of response spoke volumes to Altair, who twitched his head to the path and again resumed a steady gait. What could she say, anyway? She wasn't quite happy about the arrangement, but wasn't quite disappointed either.

Desperately, Aasha drank in Masyaf's village. At this time of day, the streets tittered with children, chickens, goats, and oxcarts clattering along. The air smelled rich with the aroma of roasting nuts and flatbreads being made in giant stone ovens. Humble merchants and salesmen lined their stalls up flush against the narrow allies, calling attention. The people of Masyaf lived humbly, and there were no wealthy women walking in the streets like butterflies flitting from one blossom to another. The colors here were refreshingly drab compared to the explosions of bright dyes in the lively streets of Jerusalem. Jewellery and luxury items were not sold here. As such, the atmosphere here was remarkably welcoming and easy.

By the time they reached the end of the market street, vendors were rolling up their awnings and locking their shop doors. Once he realized the path to Jerusalem would indeed take longer than previously thought, Altair rushed to purchase food for the journey. "Go find some camel's milk, fresh or powdered will do," he handed her some dinars. "Go."

Aasha held onto the coins and stared at Altair for a moment before the man nodded in understanding and took the money back. It had been more than five years since their last mission together. Despite still being dressed in assassin's robes, Aasha could no longer pass for a young boy. Still many citizens of Masyaf regarded the sisters of the Order with distrust and contempt.

So the gypsy waited on her horse while Altar scurried off to buy pieces of flatbread, a pouch of lentils, some dried meat, and powdered camel's milk. He even managed to barter in a piece of goat cheese.

"Put them in my sacks," she offered, motioning to the burlap pouches strapped onto Maymun's saddle. "I'd rather you ride light."

Altair untied the sacks and paused. "This is… it looks very nice."

Carefully guarding her expressions, Aasha thanked him.

Feeling his load grow heavier, Maymum swatted his tail at Altair's face and whinnied in annoyance. It was difficult not to laugh at the sight of the great Eagle of Masyaf, spitting horse shit from his mouth.

* * *

It wasn't until the second day of the journey that they began to finally converse in earnest.

They found themselves riding across the stretch of unmitigated desert with now nothing left for them to feign curious attention to. At first there were tall shrubs, scrub grasses, banyan trees, and once in a while an isolated stream or pool lined with date palms and wildlife. These dots of color became less common as they rode out deep into the heart of the land, and soon there was nothing left to look at but one another. The air grew harsh with silt and sand, and both riders had to stop to wrap a scarf around their faces.

Aasha fumbled with the scarf, and Altair had to help her. It was embarrassing because she should _know_ how to do this. Himself masked, Altair tucked the ends of the coarse fabric into its folds and briefly touched the skin of her face. His hands drew away too quickly, and he muttered an apology.

"No need to apologize," said Aasha, "thank you." The scarf must be tied a little tight, since her whole head was now burning with heat.

His eyes only narrowed a little; that was the sole part of his face that was visible now. When he spoke, his voice came out muffled. "You look like you belong in a _shemagh_."

"You think I look better covered?"

Altair shook his head in the negative. "Not covered. But to wear it around your head and live in the sands as the _Bedu._"

Aasha clambered back up her horse. Maymun was no longer a young stallion, and already his head was beginning to hang with exhaustion. They'd have to rest at the next oasis. "You should be happy that I am no longer Bedu," she smiled when she was again at eye level with Altair, "if I were, you would have greatly dishonoured me on numerous occasions."

"Oh?"

"A man not related to a woman must not touch her in any way, not even brush her hand while handing her something. That is the Bedu code of honour."

The assassin was silent for a long time. He knew this, which was why he reacted in such a way when his fingers inadvertently rubbed against her cheeks. "So… what does that make you?"

_It doesn't make me a whore._

"I used to be a desert dweller, but now I am not." Aasha tapped her heels to Maymun's flanks and urged him forward, following Altair's lead. "Why are you so interested in the Bedu?"

"Because I think they are beautiful." Altair recalled living with a Bedu tribe for some time when he fell ill with fever in the desert. Too far gone to even remember his own name, they discovered him collapsed over his horse.

They took him into their tents and nursed him back to health, albeit by painful methods. One of the men put a red-hot piece of coal on his skin to draw the evil spirits out of him, and the next morning his fever broke. They gave him camel's milk to drink and fed him bread. Three days living with the Bedu and listening to their stories convinced Altair that they were absolutely beautiful. Not just their brightly coloured fashions, but the way they held themselves and the way they lived. They could go to Persia if they liked; they could set up camp near the river Jordan. They could raid or they could herd camels or they could sell wares. On a whim, they disappeared completely and resettled elsewhere. They lived with an unprecedented amount of freedom, detached from organized civilization and rules and all those _boundaries_. The wonder with which he observed their lives was comparable to the amazement he used to hold for Rani, before she became Aasha out of shame.

The confession caused Aasha's head to snap so quickly to the left that it hurt. Altair revealed absolutely nothing in his calm composure, and in fact looked amused.

"I am disappointed, sister, that you look so lowly upon your own family."

Aasha pulled on Maymun's reigns so tightly that the horse sputtered and fell out of its gait. She came to a sudden halt behind Altair, whose horse slowly worked itself to a stop as well. "My family were not thieves, Altair."

"You said that not all Dom are Bedu. But your family were Bedouin desert dwellers. You didn't mention it because the Bedu and thievery go hand in hand."

"I didn't mention it because it was irrelevant," she tried to sound as scathing as possible, but it was difficult to get her point across when all the man could see were her eyes. "To say I was Bedu would be claiming something. I was not raised Bedu; I never wore their _dishdasha_ robes and I never lined my eyes. I belonged to no clan, my loyalty was to my family."

Aasha frowned, gripping the tough rope tightly in her hands. This conversation was becoming a little unsettling. She had been content all her life to not know where she came from, and not knowing was like cutting herself from responsibility. "I- I don't want to talk about this any more." Discussing her heritage with Altair was wracking her with the guilt of having abandoned her family for the creature comforts offered by Masyaf. As a child, she hadn't known it. As an adult, she was disgusted with what she'd done. A true Bedouin gypsy would value family above all else; it was too late for her now. No Bedu tribe could take her back. She was a traitor. She had no more right to call herself Bedu or Dom.

"As you wish," said Altair, a little disappointed. He'd never spoken to Aasha about her past in this way, and in reality he hoped she would be more passionate. He hadn't expected her to completely push away any mention of her possible heritage as she did. He knew she had her reservations about marrying Malik, and had hoped the desire for freedom was still strong enough for him to rouse her to run away. She had the desert at her fingertips, and if his knowledge was correct, she was practically hanging by a thread to the Order. She could easily cut her ties and run away into the undulating sands, and no one would follow her.

Altair felt that she would never truly be happy married to Malik. He'd heard her conversations in the gardens, knew she did not want to bear him any child on his terms. Altair could care less about Malik's happiness, to be honest. If he wasn't feeling so horribly like he _owed _the man something now, he'd lead Aasha to the Bedu himself. She would surely be most happy there. After all, she was not born an assassin's daughter! It was just unfortunate that she was too ignorant to see this.

He never told anyone about his secret visits to the nomadic Bedu tribe that saved his life. There was something shockingly refreshing about being received as a man, not as an assassin of incredible skill. The Bedu did not bow to him like the novices of the Order, nor did they try to lead him along like Al Mualim. They were like flowing water, and Altair just couldn't help but bob along to the current whenever he was allowed a slim peek into their lives.

They knew him by name now, and he knew their Sheik. They were Dom and of the Dom, they were Bedu. Of the Bedu, they called themselves Ubeidah. And of the Ubeidah was a man named Omar who mourned the death of his two daughters, except one of them was not dead. Altair knew this and kept his silence on both ends, disappointed that Aasha had no desire to return to her desert roots. If only _he_ had a chance to be reunited with his father or mother….

There was that, and then there was the fact that he could not let Malik have her because of his mistake. Altair knew that in a way, he was the reason why Aasha was being made Malik's assistant and partner. It was enough that he took Kadar's life and Malik's arm from him; that grievous error he would spend a lifetime repenting. But it also hurt him to be the one to deliver Aasha to Malik, who would wed her out of duty and not for love. Malik might have loved her once, but Altair knew better.

The man was a different person now, and Aasha might as well be marrying a stranger.

* * *

The Jerusalem Bureau had a door, but it was well concealed behind a section of woven curtain that closed it off from the quiet alley. They'd considered dropping Malik down its latticework roof, but decided otherwise. After all, the man was unbalanced and could get injured. So the two novices and one informant making up his travel party delivered him straight to the door that few knew existed. The old Jerusalem Dai pulled open the door and lost his breath doing so. He was truly in need of replacement.

The novices and informants joked around for some time, but Malik seethed quietly. While the Jerusalem Dai fussed around his messy Bureau, pouring them coffee and offering tea and apologizing profusely for his disorganization, Malik just gritted his teeth. Each time he breathed, fresh pain licked up his left shoulder and up his neck, rooting itself into his head where it clawed at his thoughts. The point where his left arm was severed had to be wrapped daily, for it still oozed pus and dark blood. He didn't want to touch it, didn't want to accept that it was part of him… or rather, what was no longer part of him.

Kadar's loss was bad enough, and it made Malik guilty for what pity he felt for himself. He refused the tea and coffee offered to him, instead chewing on a few dried dates he found in a bowl on the counter. Instinctively, he reached for them with his right hand, and gave thanks that at least he had not lost his dominant hand. But then he remembered that he'd lost a brother and a part of himself, as well as his career and standing in the Order all because of _Altair_, and suddenly there was little to be thankful for.

They sat him down behind the counter but Malik refused to, and stood defiantly against their concerned gazes. The old Jerusalem Dai kept looking at where the bottom left arm of his assassin's tunic swung freely with Malik's every motion, a clear indicator of what was no longer there. "Are you sure…?"

"Yes," the man snapped, "I am fine."

So the Dai lead Malik around the compound, explaining all the while the general duties of a Bureau Leader. The Jerusalem Bureau was a quaint but cozy establishment that had the potential to look quite charming if properly cleaned. Its main areas consisted of the assassins' resting areas and the Bureau workroom. Any assassin could enter through the gate on the roof and find solace in the trickling fountain promising sweet water and the cushions lining the room. An opening from the safe area led to the Bureau area itself, occupied by a number of shelves of supplies and wares, and the Bureau leader's counter. These areas, Malik was familiar with. Jerusalems' Bureau was well stocked with paper, and its Dai was known for his skill in cartography. Unlike the Damascus Dai, whose skill in painting pots was nothing more than a pastime, the Jerusalem Dai made a name for himself with his meticulously detailed maps. Of course, as he aged, assassins and informants alike began to pick out inaccuracies in his work.

Sometimes said bearded man actually forgot Malik was with him, and wandered off to take a nap or to take sips of tea. The lines and creases in his brow told Malik he was far too old to be doing this sort of work, and coughed irritably when such a thing happened. "Oh!" The old man would look comically startled for a moment, "I'm sorry. Have I showed you the latrines yet?"

"Yes," said Malik, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "You were going to show me the paper stores." Now the two of them were no longer in the Bureau areas accessible to common assassins and novices. Now they were in its living quarters, where the Dai spent his days. There was a humble latrine that had to be emptied and cleaned every morning, a tub for bathing, a fairly comfortable if not strange-smelling bed to sleep on, and even quarters for cooking and eating. Malik noticed the lack of servants as they had in Masyaf's fortress, and a sinking feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. He did not actually know how to cook, and wondered about how he would get things done now with one arm. He needed help with practically everything, even though he never thought of asking for it. He struggled to put on his assassin's robes some days prior, as if desperate to prove that he was still able to don it. But he could not make himself presentable with just one hand, and eventually a novice timidly stepped up to help him. Malik punched him when he was done.

The old Dai had left him a lot of work to be done. Chairs and tables and derelict pieces of furniture were pushed to the corners of rooms and gathering dust there. Leaks were forming in the Bureau's walls and ceilings due to lack of maintenance and the small medical area where assassins were to be treated was desperately in need of re-supply. Malik took note of all this with tired eyes, knowing it was to be his work and yet feeling so distant from it. He moved as if in a trance.

"Oh yes!" The Dai clapped his hands in childish excitement, and waddled off to the latrines. Then he stopped at its doorway and mentioned suspiciously, "I have a feeling that I've already showed you the latrines."

Incredulous, Malik threw his remaining arm up and demanded he be left alone to figure out the rest on his own.

"Alright," said the old man, who winced when his back creaked in protest as he turned. "I have left you a sheet of contacts who will help you. I have told you all you must know. What you do with your spare time is your business I am told, but I will teach you cartography if you are so willing."

Malik hated cartography. He never paid attention to it when it was taught in class, never imagined that he'd have to do it for work. He shook his head an adamant negative and watched the old Dai's face whither even further. In truth, Malik just wanted him gone. He wanted the novices and informant lounging about on the Bureau's cushions to be gone. He needed to be left alone.

He moved as if in a trance until he was handed his Dai's robes. Instinctively, he raised both arms to catch it as it was passed to him, but since only one hand came up, the garment slipped from his grasp and fell to a heap on the ground.

There was a tense moment of silence as former-Dai and novices and informant each held their breaths…

And then Malik screamed. He screamed and yelled and cursed, kicking the damned robe and ordering everyone _out!_

"Remember the contacts," the now former-Dai choked with wide eyes, "if you can't…"

"Out!" Malik gestured violently to the worn door, tension and explosive fury spewing from his lips. "Out, _all of you!_ Allah forbid I see you again." He pulled open the drawer to the Bureau desk so harshly that it fell out of its place and clattered to the ground. Malik bent low and gripped the carefully scribed list of contacts with his one hand. He floundered at how difficult it was to scrunch it up. Unspeakably frustrated, he tore into it with his teeth before the four frightened men. "I don't need your help," he snarled, spitting pieces of torn paper at their retreating forms.

They practically fell over themselves in their haste to get away.

Malik cried for a long time after that. He clutched the dark Dai's robe in his one hand and sobbed into it. He hated it. He fucking hated it. He threw up into a pot he found under the counter and then cried some more. He hated everything about this place. He belonged with his fellow assassins, he belonged by his brother's side. He did not belong in this Bureau cage in which he would live and die. Especially not when Altair was still alive and flaunting his health and wholeness.

It was dark when he heard some movement in the joined room next to the workroom. The sounds of boots hitting the floor as an assassin dropped in from the ceiling opening. Malik was so used to doing this himself that to hear it from the other side was a jarring experience in itself. He tried to tug on the Dai's robe but it was buttoned, and he could not unbutton it with one hand. Trying to do so was making his fingers cramp. So instead he threw it to the side and glared at the assassin who walked into the Bureau.

…not an assassin, but a spy.

She was surprised to see him. "Malik, brother," she kept her eyes low in respect. "Is the Dai ill?"

"No," Malik shot back venomously, "I am the Dai."

The woman shifted on her feet, the tiny bells strung to her bodice singing so hideously to her every move. Finally she freed her face from the confines of her veil and shook her head. "This must surely be a joke."

"I assure you this is no joke, _sister._" His patience was wearing thin. It was a miracle that he still had any to begin with.

She looked as if she had much more to say, but decided against further questioning. "I need a map of the area leading to Salah ad-Din's camp," she explained, "may I receive one?"

Malik stared back at her blankly. His eyes were still wet and now they were sore from all the tears he'd shed prior to the courtesan's arrival. He'd spent so much time wallowing in his sorrow that the candles in the Bureau burned low and the lanterns were running dry. He struggled to see the courtesan's face, and struggled to remember where the former Dai said he held the maps. Behind him there was a shelf filled to the rim with both complete and incomplete maps of many varieties, but his eyes could not discern how they differed from one another. He even forgot where the oil was to replenish the lamps. So he just stood there looking at her, she whose eyes flickered up to meet his nervously.

"I don't have any," he said at last. "Find your way through the camp yourself."

"Yes, Dai," she nodded and began to leave, then stopped herself to tentatively bow to his authority.

"Be gone," Malik ordered, thoroughly annoyed, and watched her skitter away. She climbed the stone wall to the opening on the roof and disappeared into Jerusalem's starry night. The soft sound of bells growing softer indicated to Malik when she had gone from his vicinity, and again he found himself utterly alone.

Four days living in this way had Malik realizing that he desperately needed help, his ego be damned. Walking was unbalanced, running was impossible. Climbing ladders was pointless since even if he could get himself up the ladder, he could not reach for anything without breaking three points of contact. Walking out in public unescorted brought him looks of disgust from all directions, and on several occasions Malik dropped the wares he bought and had them stolen from him. He had no way to carry such a load home even with a basket; he'd have to make multiple trips out into the crowded markets to purchase foodstuffs, medical supplies, and day to day items. The stipend he received from Masyaf was generous and allowed for him to live comfortably, but it wasn't enough for him to hire an assistant. The rafiqs, assassins, spies, and courtesans that came through on a daily basis always seemed to need something from him. Malik found himself constantly giving and giving to the point of exhaustion. To deal with the demand for maps, Malik began to painstakingly re-learn the art of cartography on his own. He buckled under the demands placed on him, but refused to give up. All the while, he gave thanks that he never saw Aasha again. He knew that as Dai, it would only be a matter of time before she dropped into his Bureau to ask for information, but he wasn't ready to be seen yet by her.

He always considered himself her protector, but now that he only had one arm, he was useless. He was hideous and an outcast; if she saw him now, she would laugh at him. Of course his heart yearned to hear her voice and his loins burned to feel her against him, but his pride reminded him that he was no longer good enough. He was marred, incomplete. He no longer deserved to consider himself desirable. Some days he struggled to lift himself from his cot because of the heavy shame weighing him down. Thoughts of Kadar made him choke and took him out of his daily routine for hours. Thoughts of Altair made him ruin maps and kick his furniture around. Thoughts of Aasha made him afraid and overly anxious at every small sound. So to remedy all of this, he pushed them all from his mind and drowned himself in work.

Not even two weeks had passed before Malik finally fell ill. Come afternoon he found himself no longer able to work on anything, and stumbled into the courtyard in the back of the Bureau to empty the meagre contents of his stomach.

This was how Altair and Aasha found him: doubled over and shaking with a cold sweat. In a single moment, Malik's gaze met with Aasha's. They hadn't seen each other for many moons, and both were utterly unprepared for the overbearing disappointment they felt when the understanding passed between them.

* * *

_End of Chapter 12._

* * *

It's been a while since my last update- I was living out in the field the whole time, which means no electronics whatsoever. I sprained both my ankles last week during a section attack, and am absolutely exhausted. I apologize for any typos/inaccuracies you might find in this chapter... It might be edited later when I have the time and energy.

In this chapter, I wanted to explore Aasha's situation in the sense that she has very little control over her body, not at all like how women today are able to more or less influence their fertility. In a way, it's quite scary.

Also, Altair is becoming an unlikely source of intrigue for Aasha- he offers her the opportunity to create a link again with her family and culture, but the question exists: does she in fact want to grow close to her roots once again? In the end, who does she want to live as? Aasha or Rani? And just to clarify his motivations: Altair wants to live through her. To him, bringing her back to her family (where she is meant to be, according to him) fills the void in his own psyche from having lost his family at a young age.

**As always, please leave me some feedback if you've read the chapter.** Reviews really do make my day!


	13. Image 410: Malik Al Sayf

Malik did not offer him tea, and Altair did not linger. They barely even looked at each other, the tension in the air stifling even Aasha's breaths. Malik drew himself together and took a breath of hair, puffing out his chest. The sight was painful to look at, for everything was wrong with the man and he needed to be confined to bedrest. But as it were, Aasha was afraid to move.

"Leave," Malik abruptly barked in their direction. The sheer force of the bestial sound, a tone Aasha had never heard from Malik before, made her quake beneath her robes. Still she held her chin high and clutched her belongings close to her chest.

Altair cleared his throat and hid like a coward behind the shade of his hood. "By the Grand Master's instruction, I am escorting Aasha to this Bureau."

The one-armed Dai's face changed from surprise to confusion. "Aasha…?"

It was then that Aasha realized that Malik never even recognized her. Willing her hands to be steady, she adjusted her headscarf around her face so that her nose and mouth were bared. "It is I, Ma- …_Dai_." This was all too strange. Around her was the courtyard of the Jerusalem Bureau, in an area that she had not even known to exist until now. Before her was the man who she used to understand and love but who was now a stranger. Above her was the dusty Jerusalem sky, set ablaze by the sunset over a lavender horizon. Below her was where she wished she could dig a hole and crawl in to hide from the light.

Sometime in between the terse silence that followed, Altair made his leave, nimbly climbing and jumping over the wall separating the court from the deserted alley from where they'd entered. Why he couldn't use the reed door was beyond her.

Upset that he was being ignored, Maymun made a keening whinny, as if reminding Aasha that he was indeed a horse and was thirsty. Tearing her eyes from the hanging flap of Malik's left sleeve, Aasha turned her attention to her horse, "uuushhhushhushush."

Malik's feverish gaze drifted from the woman that was Aasha, the one person he'd loathed to see, and the bags strapped to her horse's wooden saddle. It occurred to him that she was not here on a routine visit for information. He was too tired yet to fully make the connections, and instead stood there staring like a dumb thing. Aasha was covered from head to toe like a common woman, and the sight was so sordid that he felt the need to laugh.

"You need to lie down," the mystery woman was saying to him now, "you're ill."

She smelled like the desert, of camel thorns and wood smoke. She reached out to touch him, to touch his cheek. Immediately as she did so, he was struck by the reality of her being here and his legs became weak against his will. She had to support him, slinging his right arm over her shoulders and meekly walking into the Bureau, allowing Malik to dazedly direct her footsteps.

Somewhere between the workroom and the Dai's room, Malik began drifting in and out of awareness. His entire being radiated heat like a rock left out in the desert sun, and Aasha was gripped by an overwhelming fear that he might die._ How could Altair simply leave them like so?_

Her heart drumming in her ears, Aasha cupped Malik's clammy face and asked him if he'd taken any hashish. When the man just looked right past her, she slapped his cheek and asked again, this time with more urgency. Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes- perhaps from the strong incense.

"Yes," Malik finally choked out, knowing that this was not how he wanted to meet Aasha again. He did not want to be seen like this, not by Altair and especially not by this woman. She was shaking against him, and could not carry his weight any longer. She sat him against the wall and made him comfortable where he was. But he had taken hashish to shroud the pain of where the stump of his left arm met the air, and now the drug was wearing off. "I need… more…"

Catching his meaning, Aasha pursed her lips. "No," the former spy decided, "you will not take any more hashish in this condition."

In truth, it was that she had no knowledge of how to administer it. What if she gave him too much? _What if he died from it?_ No, she could not chance that.

As if Allah himself were playing a cruel joke on them, no assassin, rafiq, courtesan or spy entered the Jerusalem Bureau for the rest of the day. With the candles burning low and the lamps lining the walls drying of oil, Aasha knew she could no longer leave the man asleep in the hall. She found a wooden bowl in the workroom meant for water, and filled it from the trickling fountain underneath a latticework roof. This was the Bureau that she was familiar with- the colourful cushions on which she'd rested many times in the past. To flip past the cloth divider and pass into the Dai's personal quarters felt odd, even stranger that the Dai was now Malik. She bade him drink a little more, massaging his neck and jaw to trigger his reflexes to swallow.

The process was long and horrible, and seemed to take hours. Malik did not have the strength to pull himself to his feet, and he was altogether too heavy for Aasha to carry. She took his one arm and pulled, but his barely muffled whimpers tore at her heartstrings.

"I've got you," she whispered to him when finally he was swaying on his own feet. His breathing was heavy as he pressed himself against her, and his one remaining hand wound its way around her back and held there. Aasha swore she felt something wet against her cheek that was decidedly not sweat. Together they painstakingly made their way to Malik's sleeping quarters. It was too dark to see much of the room, but instinctively the man led her towards where he knew his cot to be. He collapsed onto it and moaned lowly in pain. Aasha wrung her hands in the dark, knowing that Malik was suffering and yet not knowing what to do to absolve it. She could make him ginger tea if she knew where the kettle was, if she knew where he kept his ginger. Dumbly, Aasha asked him, and the question passed over his head.

"I need to find your flint, we need to have some light." Her back was soaked through with sweat, staining the fine silk of her jilbaab. If she took a few paces back, she would no longer be able to see Malik. The darkness made her ill at ease. When there was no response, she inhaled deeply and wiped the sweat that'd gathered in the palms of her hands on her jilbaab. Just as she was making to venture out into the Bureau on her own, a hand shot out from the darkness and caught the hem of her dress. "Stay, please. I just need you…" Malik's voice stuttered, "…here."

She sat on his cot and he held her hand for hours as he rode through his nightmares. Several times he called out for his brother, Kadar, and several times Aasha found herself seized by the intense sorrow that passed from him to her with every savage squeeze of his hand. Eventually she gingerly laid herself out on the cot next to Malik and laid her head on his good shoulder. She sobbed in silent, gasping breaths out of fear and a desperate need to remind herself that she could still cry. She hadn't for a long time. Gently touching her bead necklace, she was brought back to a fragmented memory of laboured breath, bloody coughs, and the same sorrow that she felt now.

* * *

_It was winter, and it hadn't rained for a year. Omar was discussing the possibility of having to travel to another camp a long distance away for water. Their watering hole, the heart of their existence day by day, was drying up before their eyes. Months ago Rani could stand and play there, and the water would lapped at her knees. Now the life stream just barely licked her ankles, and it wasn't just that she'd grown. _

_Sharma bounced her baby son on her knee and kissed his pudgy face, singing a desert poem while Omar prayed to Allah. "Rani," she called, "have we more tea? Rani?"_

_When no response came, the nomad woman looked to her oldest daughter and smiled ruefully. Radha smiled back, continuing to mix water and flour together to make flatbread dough. "Rani will always be a child of the desert, uma. I fear for her when she has to leave." _

_"Hush now," Sharma shook her head derisively, "she'll come to understand when her time comes. But right now, this is her home and she has to do her share!" _

_Radha lifted the flap of their goatskin tent and called out for her sister, "Rani!" _

_Finally the girl cried back, "what is it?" _

_Listening to how distant the familiar voice sounded, Radha judged that Rani was with the camels again. She tightened her wool shawl around herself and pretended it was made of fine silk and not instead coarse fibres worn thin by years of wear. Though it was winter, it was not in fact cold at all- and she wouldn't have felt cold with all her family around her. "I'll do her work for her," Radha said at last when her golden heart gave out. _

_Her mother looked at her disapprovingly, but Radha tidied her hair into its neat braid and set off to do Rani's housework. She was only thirteen and Rani was just eleven years old- her sister deserved to relish what bit of childhood she had left. She swept the bugs, powdery sand, and dead flies from the ground of their thatched tent and cleared the doorway of rocks and accumulated sand. The tiny grains went everywhere, and a buildup could occur if they were not careful. Once that was finished, she took to folding quilts and clothes while Sharma beastfed Amir. They didn't have many clothes to speak of, but every week they beat the dust out of them and washed them if they could. They had not washed their clothes in many moons now, but they washed their bodies daily and that was more important. Even when they had little water left, they cleaned themselves and had tea. _

_As soon as Rani wandered into the tent, her mother was on her. "You insolent girl! Your sister had to do your work for you! What by merciful Allah were you up to?" _

_Dragging a dead twig behind her, Rani shook the thorns out of her wild hair and grinned widely. "I taught Bashira to dance!"_

_"Your hair has come undone! Come here, you imp!" _

_Muttering and rolling her eyes, Rani dropped the dirty stick and came to kneel before her mother, who set about re-braiding her hair. Guiltily, she turned away from her sister. She heard her mother the first time, and hadn't responded because she'd hoped to get away with not doing housework. She had no patience for it at all, preferring to be out in the sands instead. She found no joy in sweeping or making flatbreads as Radha seemed to. She found no satisfaction in mixing dung, mud and water in a bowl and fixing the cracks in their thatching as her mother seemed to. When she closed her eyes, she felt the rhythmic thud-thud of Bashira's feet on the desert sands and heard the joyous chink-kachink of her bracelet singing while she walked. And the undulating rise and fall of her hump squeezed between Rani's legs was as familiar as walking for the young girl. _

_While Sharma tugged and pulled at her hair, Rani's gaze dropped on a pile of charming coarse silk. It was dyed a bright yellow like mustard powder, and beside it was a basket of small mirror pieces to be sewn on. "What is that, uma?"_

_"That's your sister's wedding dress," Sharma replied evenly, "or what will become her wedding dress… Soon your sister will marry your cousin Mohammed, and she'll need to look like a princess."_

_Rani giggled when Radha's entire body seemed to quake at the words. Seeing how happy her sister was, Rani could not help but think of herself. "Will I ever be married one day, uma?"_

_Sharma chuckled, "when you are of age and ready, we will find a good boy for you." _

_Picking at the dirt in her nails, Rani mumbled that she'd like to be married one day. _

_"You wouldn't like wearing this," Radha rubbed her aching back and picked at the chadr she wore around her head. She made an expression like she was disgusted, then began to laugh. "I've had to say goodbye to running, not that I did much of it to begin with." _

_Rani turned up her nose, desperate to outdo her overly-pleased sister. "When I marry, I'll ride horses and dance with camels and-"_

_"Rani!" Sharma barked at her, "you will not speak like that again!" _

_With her braid complete, Rani spun around to argue further with her mother, but stopped when she saw how wide the woman's eyes were. The desert aged people too quickly, and lines were already chasing Sharma's eyes and mouth despite her years. And right now, her mother's lovely honey eyes were big with fear. Not knowing why she was afraid but suddenly feeling terrified herself, Rani immediately apologized and buried herself in Sharma's arms. Her mother held her for a few moments more before Amir began to cry, and then she was pushed aside._

* * *

When she opened her eyes, she was confused for a long moment. Where was her mother? Where was Radha? Realizing slowly that she had just dreamed of her childhood, Aasha felt compelled to cry but had no more tears left to spare. She'd cried much already the night before.

Recently she began thinking about her past family, of her father and mother and brothers who must still be roaming the desert. She blamed this on Altair, whose crazed ramblings made her curious once more for dangerous thoughts. Riding Maymun began to remind her of the great camels of her people, especially when he trotted lightly over sand. When men roused themselves in the morning to sing their praise to Allah, she recalled the poems her father sang when the long nights were hard to bear.

And now that she was in Malik's company, in fact lying right beside him at this moment, she thought of Radha. Beautiful Radha who was everything a man could want, who in turn wanted nothing more than to bear sons for her husband. Loving Radha, who would have made such an excellent mother… Radha, who had her hopes and dreams stolen from her, who she'd failed to save, who she'd seen perish with her own eyes. And now Aasha was here, with the man who was to be her husband, and she felt robbed. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Why couldn't she be happy like Radha was? Where was her mother to stitch her a wedding dress? Now that she considered it, she would have preferred a handmade mustard coloured dress of coarse silk and mirror pieces embroided on the hems as opposed to the delicate thing Khitan had bought her. She felt no connection to it, felt no spirit of life in the piece.

By the growing light of the sun, everything was different. Wooden wheels clattered on the cobbled road out in the streets, growing louder… louder… louder still until it was nearly unbearable… then fading away. Jerusalem was rising for the day.

Malik was wet as if he'd been dunked into a stream of water, and though his eyes were still closed, they moved wildly behind their lids. Not wanting to wake him, Aasha slowly moved her stiff body off Malik's single-man cot and realized she hadn't even bothered to take off her shoes the night before. She moved to stand up and nearly toppled over when her long robes caught her around her feet. Frustrated, she tore her headscarf from her face and shimmied herself out of the soiled garments. She kicked off her shoes as he did so, suddenly feeling much less important. Now completely bare, she covered herself with her hands and looked around her to be sure she was indeed alone. Yes, the drape to the room was down and the window was drawn and thatched with sticks from the outside, presumably to keep sand out. Malik snored once and fell silent again. In the courtyard, Aasha heard the tell-tale signs of her horse becoming restless once more.

There was an open chest at the foot of Malik's cot, and in it Aasha saw a haphazard slew of clothes. Tunics, a Dai's robe, lungi, pants, a turban… all made of humble material and obviously meant for men. Tentatively, she picked up an assassin novice's tunic and fingered the worn gray cloth. She slipped the tunic on and over her head like she'd done many times before and tried to find a set of pants that were not too large. She found two pairs in the chest, but they were too big around the waist and would not possibly hold up on her.

"That tunic looks like a sheet of goatskin on you."

"It was the only one I could find." Concentrating too hard to remember the oddity of her situation, Aasha took on the easy banter that used to be the custom between her and Malik while still searching for that one pair of…

_…wait. _

She paused and looked at him. He was staring back at her with eyes reddened at the edges, propped up on his right elbow. Immediately, Aasha pulled the long tunic as low as it went, blushing red as spices smuggled from the east. "I see you're awake, how do you feel?" Hopefully Malik hadn't seen that she was uncovered underneath. This was not how she wanted to present herself to him.

"I don't recall much of yesterday," the man replied, still keeping his eyes on her. "Are… are you truly here?"

"I am."

Malik frowned like he was in pain. He was still the hazy palimpsest of a headache, almost like he'd been drinking much wine. "Why? Did you need something? Are you on a mission?"

In a way, she was, but she was unable to say the true nature of her assignment. She crushed a small ant under her thumb as she considered what she should say, while Malik watched her. It twitched and struggled to its death, its minute existence- unimportant, superfluous… _auxiliary._

"Al Mualim has ordered that I work in this Bureau."

She studied his face carefully, looking for signs of anger, remorse, resentment… The Dai was deep in thought for a moment, probably seeing the bigger picture for the first time. And when he did, and Aasha knew the exact moment when Malik's eyes fell empty, he looked to the place where her bare thighs disappeared under the hem of the tunic. Her pile of discarded clothing lay in a pool beside Malik's carefully folded spare robe on the floor near the cot. He looked at it for a moment and made the conclusions in his mind.

"Your horse…"

"Maymun is in the courtyard." She could no longer look at him, now that he knew she was bare.

"Stay here and keep yourself covered."

He rolled off the bed in a way only a one-armed man could manage, trying to hide the flap of his right sleeve but not being able to. Suddenly concerned with his appearance, Malik straightened his robe with one hand and touched his beard while shakily making his way through the Bureau and out into the courtyard. Though his fever had broken, he was still weakened and disoriented. In the narrow hall, he nearly tripped and fell over a heap of pots that he vaguely remembered trying to clean out for some reason the day before. He shouldn't have even touched them, the iron was rusted to the core.

From her place behind the thatched window, Aasha heard him go out into the courtyard and fiddle with Maymun's saddle.

She pried apart some of the twig and saw a bit of the court and was dismayed at the disarray it seemed to be in. Shrubbery and flowers were trampled or dried, the ground was cracking, and weeds were sprouting from those breaks. Malik was having some difficulty untying her two bags from the saddle, and took to swearing while he worked.

Pulling Malik's quilt off the cot and to wrap around her, she breathed in his scent and tried to hide her disappointment once again. Malik had obviously made no effort to arrange this room, for aside from the cot, a chest, and a single foot table bearing the remnants of a burned out candle and a metal washbasin, the place was bare. Finally she heard Malik's footsteps approaching her, and automatically used her free hand to comb the knots out of her hair.

He did not look at her out of respect, and dropped her bags on the ground before her. "I… I am going to change." He swallowed deeply and looked towards the cracking ceiling.

"So am I." She reached her free hand out to take the bags, careful not to reveal herself. The entire exchange was the most awkward thing she'd ever experienced. Decency and piousness had never been as important to her as it was now. She'd imagined this day would happen somewhat differently. She'd imagined herself maybe seducing him, revealing her hair to him and making secret trips in the night on his horse. And yet in his presence, she became self-conscious again.

Aasha knew now that she could not hurt him. She could not manipulate him as she did her targets- Malik deserved better.

They faced different directions and went about changing themselves. She heard him splashing water on his face, and wished she could do the same. She brought four sets of clothes with her, each varying in their appearance and opulence. But it was the black silk robe strung with fine silver thread and tiny bells that most endeared to her. When she wore the delicate bells on her, she felt like a dancer. In the back of her mind, the sound of the bells brought her back to a time of celebration, of running around and stomping the ground and hearing the chink-kachink of her ankle bracelets. And in that moment, the very fabric of time stretched against their bodies and nothing was as important as the hot desert air moving against the inside of her thighs, the way her hair twisted around her and obscured her vision _just right._ The memory was a haze of vibrant colors, heady scents, and a faceless audience- all but the dregs were lost to her. Now if she were to dance, she'd become acutely aware of the men's eyes on her as she did. Dancing was no longer an act of innocent joy. Now tainted by knowledge, Aasha felt ashamed.

So she didn't put it on, and instead she put on a plain and practical tunic made of a soft wool-like material. Mistress Khitan had stressed that this was meant for sleep, but Aasha thought it much resembled the assassin's wear and had a very similar cut. She doubted Malik would notice or comment on it.

She was still debating on a headscarf when the Dai finished, and with one cursory look at her he decided for her that she would wear no such thing. He was not tempted by the 'waves' that emitted from her hair that caused him to desire her. It was not her hair that he desired, anyway. When Aasha was younger and still able to disguise herself as a boy, they had her head shaved so she would better resemble one. And yet still Malik found himself inexplicably attracted to her despite being too young to understand the concept of desire.

Used to the motion of crossing his arms, Malik did so and found himself awkwardly cradling what remained of his left arm. He cringed, but refused to move to a more comfortable position. "I want to know why you're here, and no riddles this time."

"I never spoke in riddles to begin with. I am here to serve as your assistant."

Malik scoffed, his inner conflict and annoyance plain as day. "I don't need an assistant," and as he said this he looked at the ground as men who were caught lying tended to. The fact that he still had such a conscience was reassuring. Catching himself giving away the signs of his dishonesty, Malik quickly turned to his side and began to show Aasha the Bureau stores.

* * *

While Aasha familiarized herself with the Bureau in which she would now spend her days, Malik sat himself on his cot and tried to clear his mind.

Never in an eternity would he ever have expected such a move, and on the part of Al Mualim nonetheless. It made little sense to him- why dispatch her as his assistant if not to tempt him? Though their secret relationship remained a secret to many, Malik had little doubt that Al Mualim knew of it. Masyaf was a crevice of the Grand Master's hand, and he knew all that transpired there behind closed doors.

But why?

To have suffered the loss of his brother, the loss of his arm… and now he should be tempted with that which he could never have?

Malik was convinced –he was absolutely certain- that he'd lost Aasha as well. In the process of being maimed and losing his rank as assassin, he'd lost her.

What did this mean? Could it be that the Grand Master wanted him to shoulder the heavy burden of his loyalty to the Order, symbolized by Aasha's presence? Was she some sort of peace offering to him, in return for his work? _No, not even Al Mualim would stoop so low as to offer her up as an object, a barter piece._

But the more Malik considered, the sweatier his palms got. Surreptitiously, he eyed the two bundles he'd brought in earlier for her.

What were in them?

Craning his head to hear into the hall, he predicted Aasha to be somewhere in the storage room, where no doubt she'd be appalled by its foul condition. He was never one to invade others' privacy, especially that of a woman's. But as she was his assistant, he convinced himself that it was his duty to take stock of her belongings. Even though the excuse was logical, a lingering guilt still plagued him as he deftly untied the coarse fabric bags with a clever twist of the fingers on his right hand. Gracelessly, thoughtlessly, he plunged that hand in through the slacked opening and met with soft silks and hard jewels.

Even with his eyes closed, without looking at them, Malik understood that these were not the clothes of a Dai's assistant.

Either Aasha was working out of the Bureau on some secret mission, or she was lying to him. The second possibility did not anger him as much as the first- how dare Al Mualim use him like so?

Her steps were soft and he was still in thought when she entered like a breeze through a window. She was holding a steaming cup of tea, and she stopped when she saw where his hand was. "Those are my things," she spoke accusingly, "what are you doing?"

O Merciful God, Malik never found her more attractive than she was now, in an austere, unadorned tunic and simple skirt.

Malik did not even try to withdraw his hand like Aasha was no doubt expecting, and indeed made a show of digging further into her bag. "I was simply wondering what you'd brought with you. Surely Al Mualim sent you with something to supplement the Bureau, no?" He was Dai, and he would not have her questioning him. It was best she come to know this now.

No longer would Malik languish in the shadows, for his hesitation and inaction resulted in the tragedy that was now his life. Altair's foolishness was one part, but Malik should have known better. No more.

So Aasha watched him pull her carefully folded and packed garments out of her bags and scatter them on the floor, where they laid spread out like corpses after a battle. Her heart sank in her throat and the clay cup she held grew uncomfortably hot, scalding her hand. And yet there was no place in this sparsely furnished room to put it, and so there she stood, watching Malik tear her things apart. His motions were violent, and she felt her legs quake. Allowing him to disassemble her belongings, what true ones she had, was like letting him tear away her clothes. She knew her story was losing ground, and quick. Malik pulled out one jewelled garment after another, and the look on his face said that he was not just surprised, but completely confused. Then he reached down and pulled out a small bag of grain and a nose bag for the horse.

"At least_ something_ makes sense," he muttered to himself, looking at her but not noticing how she was cringing.

He moved on to the next bag, in which Aasha knew to be food supplies and travel items. Malik would find nothing of value here, and he would be disappointed. Then he would have questions. Why all the fine clothing?

It wasn't fair for him to expect her to answer his questions when she had so many of his own.

And indeed, Malik found a pouch of dried olives and a few fresh ones, carefully wrapped in a thin muslin cloth. Altair ate more of them on the journey to Jerusalem than she did. A small bag of flour, a wooden bowl and a number of spoons were also found, along with a bit of ground salt and some heavily spiced goat meat.

"You have brought nothing with you of use to this Burueau."

"No," she replied simply, thoroughly tired though it was but morning still. "But I have brought myself."

Her fingers were numb now from the heat, and she stepped forward on soft leather sandals and offered Malik a cup of tea. This scene, so eerily domestic, felt surreal to her.

Malik's eyes were so dark, so dark that she struggled to find his pupils. "This one here, the white robe with the embroidery on the hems…" he jerked his head in the direction of said garment, and Aasha's eyes followed his direction to rest upon the disorderly pieces of clothing scattered all over the ground. Something about the way he'd taken them and tossed them on the ground… it felt like a violation. She hadn't expected him to keep on doing what he was doing after she told him to stop. The Malik she knew would not have continued, would have paused to listen to what she had to say.

She felt vaguely nauseated.

He looked at the robe for a long while but didn't say anything after that, though he knew what it was. A wedding dress.

He understood now, and he was not surprised that Aasha chose not to disclose her true role in this Bureau. For who would want to marry a cripple like him? Even now, his treacherous stump pulsed dull pain racing through the space under his collar and causing him to breathe in short bursts. It might have looked like he was angry, but that was just as well.

If Al Mualim intended for him to marry, then it meant that he would forever remain a Dai; all possibility of work in the assassin's ranks were wiped from him. And now Al Mualim had decided to give him not just an assistant, but a wife. Malik considered himself many things: among them a good man, a warrior, an assassin (still), a brother (still), and now, grudgingly, a Dai. But he was not a husband, and even when he was in his youth, whole and happy, with Aasha in his arms, he had not loved her the way a husband should love his wife.

And now what was he? The responsibility of a Dai was a pale, tiny thing in comparison to what would be required of him as a husband.

He took the tea from her and apologized. He should have something to eat; morning was over Jerusalem now, and sooner or later a member of the Order was sure to drop in and demand something or another from him. Malik could not face them in such a state.

"What are you sorry for?" Her eyes were red around the corners, and it made his chest ache to know that it was him who had caused it.

Malik had not the words for it. So he drank tea and brooded, kept brooding about as he went on with his business for the day.

Hours later, after several men and women had come and gone, he paused his work at the Bureau workroom and decided to take a short break. He was plagued with question of what he was sorry for, and he wouldn't be at ease until he'd given her a proper answer. The question was boiling now, along with an inexplicable mix of guilt, sadness, frustration, and jealousy tumbling about in his mind, where they had no business to intrude.

Aasha had set out a plate of flatbreads with a small bowl of hummus, a humble and familiar meal. She must have come in while he was dealing with the last assassin, who kept buggering him about a possible secret doorway into Jarizah's Palace that was really nothing more than rumour. Malik knew for certain because he'd heard of it and set off to find this secret passageway some time earlier, with no success.

She was not in the Bureau's tiny kitchen, which was currently humiliatingly cluttered and filled with unusable pots and rusted utensils. Aasha was not in the storage room either; probably because it stank like centuries of dust and rancid goat's milk somewhere. Malik had neither the strength nor patience to clean this place out more than was necessary to complete his everyday tasks. With one arm, cleaning for the sake of organization and appearance was stupid, painful, and pointless. When he was here alone, he did not think twice about leaving the Bureau's inner rooms in the disarray it already was when they were handed down to him. But now that Aasha was here, and she could see how these rooms were left to clutter and rot… what would she think of him?

The walls were showing cracks. Moss grew in the cracks of the floor. Corners of where the walls met the ceiling and floor were cloaked in layers of cobwebs, dead insects, and dust.

She was not anywhere.

_Maybe she'd run away_. The thought made him panic, and without thinking he called out for her.

She emerged from their shared sleeping quarters and gaped at him, asking softly if he was all right. Malik knew this tone- the former spy used it when trying to appear demure, which he knew she was truly anything but. The fact that she was now using it on him disturbed him.

"I-" he could not tell her he was afraid she'd left. That would be cowardly. "What were you doing in there?"

"This room needs to be re-arranged." She looked him full in the eyes, and took two horrifying steps forward. Malik nearly fell back, and it was through sheer force of will that he feet remained where they were. She always had this effect on him- that has not changed. Nothing in her posture portrayed any sort of aggressiveness, and it was funny in a way that he should be afraid of her, a mere woman! Altair could strike him on the face and he wouldn't be as scared!

She looked past him but edged ever closer. "In the store room there is a mess of furniture, all jumbled together. They're old and dirtied, but if I could clean them and move them here, we could have a proper living space. Malik? Are you listening?"

He was at first, but then he stopped listening because the realization dawned on him what he was sorry for. She was so close now that Malik naturally leant forward in preparation to embrace her as he always did before… the accident, and now he realized with one arm he could no longer hold her. "I'm sorry you have to live with a cripple," he blurted, registering her shock but needing- desperately _needing_- to tell her this, so she would know. "You should be marrying a wealthy man with two arms, servants, and a clean house, not a poor incomplete man like me, who can't even arrange his own furniture. No matter how hard I work, I cannot offer you anything more than this, and for that I am truly sorry." As he stammered, his mind wound itself back to those careless days when he held her against him in the shade of Jerusalem's rooftop gardens, blissfully taking his life for granted. And now he would never stand on a roof again, looking down at the people milling about below. When he finished, she was staring at him like he'd turned into a cow. Malik had a great many things to be sorry for, but he was not sorry for his apology. He would rather live alone than live a life of unfulfilled expectations.

She was silent still, and Malik took her hand in his and felt how the pads of her fingers were just slightly calloused. "I could send you back. Al Mualim would…"

"Don't you want me?" Aasha interrupted him, forcefully squeezing his fingers that were intertwined with hers. "What if I wanted to be here? What if I asked Al Mualim to send me here?"

"You didn't," he sighed, "you didn't, because if you did, you would have told me."

"I didn't tell you because… because I didn't know if you even wanted…" Her voice, which began so strongly, trailed off to something pitiful. They were no longer children, but still they were both afraid. This was something that they'd never done before, and they would be taking this leap of faith together into the unknown. None of them perhaps really understood the possibility of being married one day. Malik was supposed to remain an assassin and Aasha had a bright future ahead of her as a spy. Yet somehow the stars had aligned so that they were both knocked from their separate paths to converge and walk the same path together.

Aasha was here to stay, Malik knew this now. His relief was instantaneous, like jumping into a cold oasis in the middle of the desert.

"I will always want you. I never stopped wanting you. But I can't be a normal husband."

"Then I suppose that means I won't be a normal wife." With those simple, earth shattering words, she let go of his hand and instead enveloped him in the vastness that were her arms. Malik discovered with astonishment that she was capable of holding him upright even when his feet started to feel weak from her touch. Though he had but one arm, she manoeuvred under his stump and did not seem to be disgusted by it.

Malik wished he could say he didn't cry a little bit, but that would be a lie. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, where the pleats of her hair parted, and let his stray tears drip from his face and disappear into the blackness. And when they parted, Aasha could not tell his eyes were wet. Perhaps she noticed he was breathing slowly and deeply, but if she did, she didn't say anything about it.

"The fact that you are poor cannot be helped, for it is the Dai's way to live humbly." She pressed her palm to his chest and felt for his heartbeat under the layers of his robes. Malik's remaining arm was wrapped around her waist now, and where they were joined she felt great heat. "Even Allah cannot give you back your arm, and we will not have servants. But at least there is something to be done about cleaning this Bureau, no?"

"Yes," he croaked, then coughed. "Unfortunately everything needs to be cleaned. There are cobwebs even in my throat." O Merciful Allah, did he just make a joke?

Aasha's eyes lit up and the light spread across her face, bursting forth in a radiant smile.

It was going to be all right.

* * *

_End of Chapter 13._

* * *

What is this madness? An update?

I do apologize for the humiliatingly long wait. I was having issues writing this chapter exactly the way I wanted it, and even now I don't know if it's just quite right. I'd wanted Malik to be a bastard for a while longer, but he was just too lovable and his character went ahead and reconciled against my will.

**Thanks for all the great feedback on the previous chapter**, and I do hope I haven't lost all of you! Hopefully you still remember the events of the story after a month of nothing from me. Hopefully updates are faster from here on in, but no promises due to increased workload and general procrastination.

**Please review if you read! I do appreciate reading them, and they remind me to get back on the story when I'm stuck in procrastinationland. **


	14. Image 455: Altair Ibn Lahad

After his fourth nightmare in five nights, Aasha realized that Malik's injury was not a matter of changing bandages frequently enough, or applying the right salves. His injury was less tangible, and she was unsettled to realize that she had little knowledge as to how to help him. Sometimes she would sit and watch him work, reflecting on how it was possible that a man with so much life was now confined to an office. Like a pigeon in a cage. Sometimes Malik caught her eye and smiled just slightly- those were on his good days. Some days he ignored her completely. And when she asked him a question –simple things like 'how many eggs do we need?'- he'd erupt in a rage, sending her scuttling away to their shared living quarters with a stinging sensation in her eyes. She wasn't used to running away, and especially not from Malik. But if she were to argue with him, what good would that bring? He'd always apologize later, but she could never quite completely forgive him.

It was likely the fact that Al Mualim was sending Altair on some crazed quest to assassinate certain Templars, and this quest caused him to frequent Jerusalem's Bureau. In a way, Aasha wished Altair would stay away so Malik could begin to heal, for obviously it was his presence that constantly annoyed the one-armed Dai.

Aasha herself rarely saw Altair. The only reason she'd know he was there was because Malik would be seething silently to himself when she returned from the market, or he'd be throwing his maps around. She'd learned from experience to never,_ ever _ask about Altair's mission progress. Or anything related to the man. Nonetheless, she thirsted to know about him- what was he doing? _Who exactly_ were his targets? Her curiosity as a former spy often got the best of her, and sometimes at night she'd look over Malik's cryptic maps and try to discern where he'd sent Altair. She never understood how the maps worked, as Malik scribbled all over them. Some buildings and towers were circled with a red pigment ink, but so were some farmhouses and ruins. Certain _wadis_ were marked with a flag, but Aasha found more of these identical flags in markets and even ports. Finding no relation or possible connection, Aasha gave up.

While Malik laboured in the workroom, receiving assassins and rafiqs and drawing his maps, Aasha set to work clearing out the Bureau. Over many days, she chose and picked the good pieces out of the mess of derelict furniture cluttered in their store room. She found end tables and stools made of strong wood, polished to a warm glow. Some were scratched and some pieces were nearly completely destroyed by water damage or termites, but many pieces were beautiful to look at. She used a moist rag to wipe them clean of the years of dust and grime that had accumulated, and she could spend hours considering how she could arrange the pieces in their sleep room. Would the white porcelain jug look better on the table or on the floor? The domesticity of it was charming in a sense. It was something new. Aasha also found a bright woven rug that reminded her of her mother's shawls in the winter, and so she set that out on their floor. And when Malik came into the room to sleep at night, he would shake his head and smile in amazement. These small things gave Aasha intense pleasure.

The life of the minimalist. Intense pleasure was a look of approbation.

Now brightly coloured cushions littered the room, and a painted jug sat proudly on the end table that was never there before. The room now better resembled a space where people actually lived in. It no longer smelled like loneliness, and the light streaming in from the window was warm. Aasha had removed all the thatching and installed a simple curtain system with a piece of twine rope and some old cloth. Since the cloth was light and thin, it fluttered in the breeze and made a pleasing sound.

Even the kitchen was reorganized. Aasha made most meals, though sometimes if she were lucky at the market, she could have enough money left over to buy pre-made food like roasted chicken, lamb stew heavy with spice, some rice. As it were, she'd cleared out all the rusted and dented pots, and saved the few good ones. The Bureau had a tiny stone oven that had to be constantly stoked, and Aasha cleaned its racks and scrubbed its interior clean of all the dirt, grease, and sand that lingered there from years of neglect. Aasha did all these things without complaint, because seeing the fruits of her work made her glow. It wasn't the type of work she was used to, but she welcomed the change.

Without really knowing it, she began to stop yearning for things- small things like the desert air, the feel of riding Maymun unsaddled, the _chink-kachink_ of a pair of metal bangles. Thoughts that gave her great joy no longer interested her. How could she think of these trivial things when there was so much to do? Floors to sweep? Food to prepare? Medicine to mix? The never ending list of things to do also distracted her from Malik, whom she just could not figure out. So she did what he needed her to do- bandaged his stump, administered his medicine to stop the swelling and phantom pains, washed and mended his clothes, cooked his meals. The truth was that sometimes she could not speak to him at all- the risk was too high. Malik was volatile some days and warm on others, and she'd long since given up trying to figure out a pattern in his behaviour. She worked so she would not have to see him on his bad days, would not need to deal with him- she simply tolerated him.

Sometimes she wondered if Malik's confession before meant that he was giving up trying to be a good man. She found herself over-analyzing every word of their conversation. Still she came up empty.

For a long time Aasha was content to let the situation brew in the back of her mind, but recently it began to bubble and steam. Now Malik began to aggravate her. She no longer felt tremendous pity for him when she bandaged his stump, and she grew out of the effects of his presence. Now she looked upon him and felt that she could see him as he really was- not a transient, dreamy character floating in and out of her life, but a man with all his flaws and abrasive habits that irritated her.

Her correspondences to Nadia grew less frequent, until one night a pigeon pecked on her windowsill with a missive from Nadia, and Aasha did not get up to receive it. She was too busy sewing up the tears in Malik's tunics, and so she ignored its incessant pecking until the bird forgot its purpose and went to join those of its kind in the pigeon coop. Later when she went to inspect the coop, she could not tell him apart from the rest of the pigeons that were there, and the message was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the pigeon had flown back to Masyaf.

She thought very little about this event. Nadia would surely send another message her way sooner or later. Her curiosity seemed to have no limit. So when days went by with no further word, Aasha tried not to feel guilty. She was still thinking of whether she should send some note of apology when she stepped into the workroom and was assaulted by an overwhelming stench.

Today Malik was burning _bakhoor_.

"How does it smell?" he asked as soon as she emerged, wiping his one ink-stained hand on his robe.

"It's very heavy," Aasha noted, stepping up to peer inside Malik's burner. The woodchips smoking there must have been soaked in some sort of musk or other fragrant oil. It smelled similar to frankincense, which Al Mualim used to burn when welcoming guests into his library. "Where did you find this?"

Malik have a small snicker and shrugged, "a correspondent from Damascus gave it to me. He said I was too distant and I should burn it so people feel more welcome in this place." He smiled, but it was strained and his eyes didn't quite shine like they were supposed to. Aasha offered one such fake smile in return.

Malik leaned his hip on his counter and peered at his hand. "Do I make people feel uncomfortable?"

Aasha lied and said no.

"Then why would he give me such a thing?"

"Maybe he was joking with you."

"No, he seemed very serious." The dark haired man tilted his head to the side and sighed, "what a mystery… How remarkable that I am so distant that you would hold your honest opinion from me!"

He did not seem to be angry, so Aasha smiled and was going to rebuke with a witty remark when Malik added detachedly, "but what am I saying? Why would I expect you to be honest… What opinion does a woman have?"

Her teeth slammed shut so hard that she tasted blood. And while Malik stared at her, she became increasingly aware of what she was holding: an empty basket for the day's trip to the market. She was wearing a conservative robe which had sleeves that touched the tips of her fingers. In taking on this new role, she had pragmatically shifted her clothing choices, her choice of words, and even the way she behaved. Wearing the _jilbaab_ made her modest, demure, pious. A shadow of her former self, a bundle of cloth.

_Fine._ If Malik was going to disrespect her, then she would return the favour. "I don't think you're very likeable, no."

His eyebrows shot up comically. "Really? What makes you think that?" He wasn't even giving her his full attention now, lazily scratching away at his current map project. She was more upset by his disrespectful demeanour than she was by his words. A kettle was boiling over in her head, and without thinking Aasha threw the wicker basket at Malik. It hit him square on the nose and fell onto the counter right on top of his freshly inked map, smearing some of the lines.

Malik's eyes were wide and his mouth was just gaping slightly in shock. On the other hand, Aasha was nearly beside herself with fear. Why had she just done that? But even her reservations couldn't stop the harsh words that escaped from her mouth. "_What makes me think that?_ Really? Maybe it's the fact that you're a different man every day, and no one knows how to properly approach you? It's like trying to harvest honey from a beehive- how am I to know if the bees are angry? And you are never thankful for anything I or anyone else does for you?" To prove her point, she picked up the basket off the counter and waved it at his face, which was currently frozen like a statue. "Where is the Malik that I knew? I know he is here because I have seen him, felt his arms around me and heard his voice. The Malik I knew would never say to me what you have just said. Who are_ you?_"

She was sick and tired of his despondent attitude, has been for a long time. It was his comment that acted as the final push on her nerves. "I'm not going to the market today," Aasha decided defiantly, "so you'll either have to do it yourself or do without."

"What…" Malik sputtered, and it seemed all the blood had drained from his face. "I… then… but... But you must."

"Why should I?" She dropped the basket down again on his counter, next to his incense burner, and took two steps back.

"You are my assistant, and I'm _ordering you_ to go to the market."

"I am not your assistant," Aasha snapped, "and I don't feel well today. So I'm _choosing_ not to go."

With that said, she turned up her nose and marched herself purposefully into out of the workroom and into the courtyard garden, and didn't stop when Malik called for her to come back. It was the first time she'd disobeyed him since coming here, and by doing it today she held no expectations of what it could mean for her, of if it meant anything at all. Had she still been a spy, she would now be seriously pondering the repercussions of her words, thinking of how she could mend their bond again, and what she could do to make it seem as if she were no threat.

But she was no longer a spy, and she didn't want to mend their bond into something fake. And she wouldn't mind if Malik regarded her as a bit of a threat- it would be better than him regarding her as a lowly woman, one who simply bought and cooked the food, tended to his every need, covered herself and thought of nothing. No, she did not want to be this sort of woman. She knew too much, and though her life had taken on many domestic qualities previously unknown to her, Aasha took to them only half-heartedly.

It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to interest him. She put on that dress with the delicate bells on it, but he barely noticed it, and muttered that she'd be arousing negative attention in the market. Negative attention was not what she'd been hoping to _arouse_. She tried singing, but her voice had grown so scratchy from lack of use that he asked her to stop. Then she bought (she stole just a tiny bit too) some powdered gold from the market, mixed it with cooking fats, and lined her eyes with it- Malik did not look at her eyes and thus did not really notice.

It just seemed that Malik was no longer interested in anything other than his work. And this caused Aasha to wonder if he ever cared for her at all. Was she just a passing fancy? Was she a thing to be enjoyed, _consumed_, a rebellious act that gave him a rush? There was but one thing he'd wanted all this time, and this she knew. Ever since he kissed her in Masyaf's garden, perhaps even before then, he'd wanted it. He never did touch her when they were sharing cots, and once in a while Malik preferred to sleep on the cushions for his stump bothered him.

She spent the afternoon in the garden, drawing water from the narrow well and watering the seeds she'd planted some days before. Some seeds were found in pouches in the store room, and some she had to buy herself with the Bureau's funds. The Bureau was only allotted so much funding each year, and keeping the garden in bloom was not a priority. Nonetheless, Aasha managed to scrounge up enough under Malik's nose to buy seedlings and sprouts- camelthorn, poppy, anise, black mustard, and turmeric. The camelthorn in particular she was very fond of, and she tended to it for a long time, fondling its pink pea flowers and smelling its sweet fragrance.

Maymun snorted gently where he was tied to his post, and regarded her with lazy eyes like balls of dull glass. No doubt he was ashamed of her. Aasha could not bear to look at him, his muscles degenerating with lack of exercise as of late, and his poor old eyes gazing at her, praying for one last adventure. How long would it take for the old stallion to forget her?

When it came time for tea, Aasha pointedly did not go to prepare it. Malik came out and stood at the threshold between the stale air of the Bureau and the crisp late afternoon breeze. She glanced at him under the hood of her robe, which she'd drawn up to shield her eyes from the sun. Under this light he looked tired, gaunt, run-down, a shell of what used to be a vibrant man. "I would like things to be different," he admitted lowly, around a mouthful of shame. "I would like for you to see me differently, but I cannot."

The sky cast a brilliant stripe of crimson across the horizon where Aasha could see, and she was stunned by this unexpected beauty for a moment. "I know," she sighed, compulsively ripping a ripe pink bud from the camelthorn bush she was just tending. The seed pod broke into small pieces in her hand, the sweet-smelling pollen staining her palm. "I want you to be happy, Malik. I can't stand to see you like this." _It is my duty, it is my mission._

If she could think of it as a mission to be accomplished, the fear was lessened.

Malik still lingered there where he stood- not quite inside, not quite out. He remembered what he'd said to her on the dreaded day, when all was askew and nothing looked right and he was so desperate for some kind of closure. _Anything._ He'd revealed himself to her, and he could not afford to any longer. Women needed not suffer the pains of men, and he was weak for relying on her. She could not possibly understand the pain of losing a brother. Losing a sister was different- brothers were meant to live and fight along one another, and young men did not deserve to die for another's wrongs. And she could not understand what it was to lose an arm, either. The pain was much more manageable now, but Malik felt her flippant indifference keenly.

If suddenly she were unable to bleed every month, perhaps then she would know.

Malik took a step back, the darkness of the Bureau casting more fatigue onto his face. "And what would you know of men's happiness?" He was a mudslide waiting to happen, a spark about to catch flame.

Aasha and Malik were on two sides of a war. She saw an opening, and was desperate not to lose it. Like a snake, Aasha shed her skins and her smooth robes piled at her feet. She stood before him uncovered but for her undergarments, and she wished- _prayed_ that this would be enough. As in the desert when it didn't rain for two years, the people resorted to desperate measures. Something had to change, and now was the time.

If only he would look. After all, she still had her body.

And ultimately in this war, it was her most reliable weapon.

* * *

Aasha never saw Altair again, but Altair kept his eyes on her. He was with her in spirit when she rose from her bed in the morning to choose out outfit for the day. With the stars dimming and the streets growing alive for the day, she tended to her garden. Altair watched the morning unfold from a rooftop nearby, taking great interest in particular to what she chose to wear for the day.

Sometimes she wore conservative robes, the ones Mistress Khitan bought for her. She never wore trousers again but for under her robes. For a long time Altair thought Malik was insisting that she wear these formless pieces of cloth that resembled drapery to him. Altair was always the more liberal one of the two. Malik enjoyed the thought of dancing women, daring, with feet and hair bare like all men did, but his enjoyment ended there at the surface of the woman, with the body. Altair thought his interest extended beyond the body, and this was why he became unsettled when he realized that Aasha was choosing these garments for herself.

It wasn't as if he could speak to her. Malik hated him with a vengeance, and tried to chase him out as soon as he stepped foot in the Bureau. And besides, he was not certain how strong his hold on her was, and he was not keen to dishonor her. Finding information to complete his assassinations was already difficult enough. With a quiet sigh, Altair waited. In the streets below, a merchant was driving an oxcart of sugarcane to market, and chickens scurried out of his way, picking at grains on the ground. This merchant was very smart, having risen early to move his wares so he would not be late to market. Oh how good the simple life was, when all one needed to worry about was how early one could wake to drive goods to market.

If Altair were a merchant, he'd be the best Jerusalem had ever seen. He could have a wife perhaps, and even have sons. Would he sell jewelry, clothing, or spices from faraway lands? Fabrics smuggled from warring state? Weapons? He could make a handsome living selling swords of Damascened steel.

The air was clear at dawn, and by mid-morning people could be choking with the dust that rose from the earth as more men from faraway lands arrived to sell their goods. Altair hugged his knees to his chest closed his eyes, thinking of how ironic it would be if he could finally rest _now_, of all times. His lids felt heavy, even more so while he watched the men of Jerusalem's rich district emerge from their houses to give praise to Allah.

If he were asked, Altair would wholeheartedly admit himself one of Allah's Faithful. But the truth was that he had travelled far and seen much. He had been to distant lands were Allah was not God, but just a _name_. He had met Bedouin and traveling Dom who knew God to be a woman. He had learned of Jesus Christ from some of the Saracens here, having learned Franj ideas during the many years they'd held Jerusalem. The truth was that he had not given praise to Allah in months.

No wonder he couldn't sleep.

_Ah. _

Altair sat up, taking the observant profile of a bird of prey. From his angle, he could just see the top of her head- she was _tiny_ from so high above. Altair wondered how he must look like to God. Aasha stepping into the Bureau courtyard to tend to her garden meant that Malik was awake. Her feet were bare today, and the braids in her hair had come undone. Altair did not know much of women's mysteries, including how their hair seemed to look different every other day. He had seen her with short hair like his own, then with long flowing locks pleated and bound. She left for missions with her hair carefully braided under decorative shawls, sometimes adorned with jewels. What was the true state of her hair? How would it feel between his fingers? What would it smell like? Altair found himself wondering of these trivial pursuits, and felt a small pang of jealousy in the knowledge that Malik would know. He would know all of her.

Speaking of the Dai, he was likely praying in the Bureau, with his knees and forehead pressed to the ground as he recited praise for Allah, rejoicing in this small spiritual freedom. Malik had always wanted to properly give praise to Allah each morning- how funny that Allah would finally allow him to give thanks _now_, after taking away all that he'd loved.

Normally Altair watched her pray and garden without revealing himself, and waited for when she finished her tasks in the Bureau and left for the market. Only then was it safe to visit Malik. But today, her movements were encumbered, and when she dipped her head to pray she hesitated. Her slight frame trembled under her light robes, the tips of her fingers were shaking. The morning was a tad brisk but not at all cold, and Altair took in all these details with frowning eyes, knowing that she was unhappy. He also knew that he could not approach her. A dog barked somewhere in the streets, causing her to startle just slightly, like a hen realizing she'd just laid an egg. She attempted to pray but again could not.

Oh how he would like to speak to her. For weeks he'd held onto the loosening hands of men who now hated and resented him. Malik despised him- he would tear out his insides and feed them to hounds if he could. Abbas thought him an arrogant bastard, and even sweet Rauf grew distant. He'd heard what they said about him- how he was an embarrassment to the Order, a false man, a son of none, with nowhere more to go but to languish and leech the life of those around him. And Altair himself knew these words to be true.

For what he'd done could not be excused. Malik had every right to wish him dead, to curse him with every fiber of his being. Kadar was a sweet, innocent and unassuming boy- naïve and eager. He had a heart of gold as the Franj called it, completely unlike spiteful Malik. That Altair had fled and left Kadar to die was unforgivable, _unpardonable_. Not even being stripped of all his rank, being mocked, or even worked to death- not even that could lighten his heart of its guilt. Guilt that he had thought fit to leave the two brothers fighting on their own, guilt that he hadn't thought to look for another way in… guilt that Kadar had perished when he should not even have gone… guilt that he hadn't listened to Malik- why hadn't he listened when he had two ears and but one mouth? And most of all, guilt that Allah left him alive even when he threw himself with reckless abandon against the Templars laying siege to Masyaf. How was it possible that he had survived? Why did Allah save him?

What more was there for him to do? _O Allah, how could I keep on living? My life for the deaths of so many- what difference does it make that they are Templar?_

Altair would have wallowed in his self-hatred for the rest of the morning if Aasha's hadn't called his name.

* * *

There he was: a vision, a trick of the mind, a fake promise of oasis. She almost wanted to touch him. Maybe they'd both died and were in paradise. But no, for neither of them deserved it.

When she spoke she sounded so damnably weak, like she was thirsty, but thirsty for _what?_ "Altair…"

To speak his name was to have power. Aasha gripped and held every small shred of pride she still had, every small license of control. Altair ibn-La'ahad, whose father was Muslim and whose mother was Franj. Altair, whom Malik despises. Altair, who was her friend in childhood. Altair, who knew Rani's family.

She could scream. If she screamed, Malik would come running and he would tear Altair to bits just for daring to see her so uncovered. And Malik would enjoy that perhaps, he would like to assert his authority over her, to have her know that she was his.

As if the night before had not been enough.

His being here was not allowed. For him to see her was not allowed. And he was definitely not allowed to approach her with arms held out like he was doing now, and she was most certainly not supposed to collapse into them, fingers gripping for purchase at the broad expanse of his back. Her fingers caught on his throwing knife belts and weapons slung over his back, and at last she drew away with a deep intake of breath.

"You cannot be here," she urged him to go, "but I will be waiting for you when I go to the market. Please, meet me at the fountain before al-Hazim's jewelry stall." She needed to speak to him again, for she was no longer Aasha and Malik was no longer her friend- Mistress Khitan had lied, and now she was all alone. Altair was all that was left that had remained more or less constant, and so she clung to him.

"Yes," Altair grunted rather than spoke, "I will see you there." He would not have agreed if he hadn't thought it would be a grievous mistake to deny her.

Malik called for her to come in, and it was like they'd never seen each other at all.

* * *

They hadn't meant to come across this wild goose chase, but the Ubeidah brothers were nonetheless caught right at its heart. At one moment they were chatting lightly seated under the shade of a desert shrub, counting the day's gains when they heard a distant rumbling over the dunes. Immediately they suspected thieves or bandits, perhaps warriors from rivaling tribes who meant to ambush them and steal their riches.

"Amir, quick. Hide the gold." Mudhil, being the older brother and the wiser, passed the embellished saddlebags of dinars and coins and gold pieces to the latter. He drew his sword and waited while Amir rushed to hide the gold in a more nondescript saddle under all the cookery and living items. Their camels made odd snorting noises, perhaps sensing that something was amiss. They were caught in a bad place, in the slight alley between two stone faces. They could only go forward and back. If they were not so high on arrogance and the successes of the day, the two young men would have run the other way. But today they felt accomplished- they felt like men! They'd managed to trick wealthy noblemen into buying their counterfeit wares, and earned an obscene amount of gold in the process. The men of the Ubeidah never backed down- they needed to prove themselves now, and to slay a man of a rival tribe was a great honour which would be celebrated. The rumbling grew louder until the light sand at the top of the great dunes shifted….

Two bandits on sleek Arabian steeds poured out over the horizon and the brother braced themselves for battle. Slight grins were on their faces as they recognized the bandits as from a neighboring tribe; their red turbans were a dead giveaway.

It took them only a moment to realize that the bandits were not charging towards them, but fleeing from something. Another moment later, four more bandits spilled forth down towards them, shouting and screaming for them to _run_.

"Brother!" Amir's breath caught in his throat, and his entire body chilled to the bone. "Come on! Leave the camels and run!"

"Are you joking?" Mudhil was already climbing back on his camel, shaking his head vehemently. His ears were dark around the edges. "These are our very best. They are probably trying to scare us! We cannot leave them. Hurry! Just get out of their way!"

They could not get away fast enough. Mudhil's feet tangled in the stirrups and his camel was distressed. The bandits where on them in a moment, knocking Mudhil off his camel and the animal itself onto the sands with a great cry. "Aie!" Mudhil groaned, clutching at his shins where the bones had split from the fall. A spray of sand lodged itself in his throat, nostrils and eyes, sending him into a violent coughing fit.

"Knights! Templar knights!" The horrible bandit called back to them, a sliver of apology in his eyes. Even though his mouth was covered by a _shemagh_, his words were clear: "run, run!" For even though they were of warring clans, they all shared the same life. These men, all of them, were children of the desert, and the white men from Europe were their common enemies.

"Knights, Amir," the older Ubeidah brother repeated with wide eyes, barely able to register the words. They'd never seen a Templar knight before, the name striking instant fear into their hearts.

"Come on!" Amir tried to bring his brother to his feet, but the young man was not strong enough to lift his brother who was a good ten years older. "No…"

Mudhil groaned with every movement he made, and the rumbling came again. The Knights were coming. "Amir, you have to go. Just leave me! Please, just leave me be." Amir stared at his with incredulous eyes before slapping him hard across the cheek.

"Don't be a stupid goat. If we are to fight, then we fight and die together."

"Then who will take care of father?!" Tears were welling up in Mudhil's eyes- both from the shock of agony shooting up his legs and the horrifying prospect of someone having to tell their father Omar that both his sons were dead. Especially after the loss of his two daughters so long ago, the deaths of his sons by the hands of the Franj would be too much for their frail old father to bear.

The Franj were known to ride on large European horses, the kinds which were slow to move and tired easily. The brothers saw them coming over the horizon in chase of the bandits, and their sheathed their swords in hopes that they could be passed by. The chances were low of course- they looked very much like the bandits the Franj were chasing, and why _wouldn't_ they kill these dirty Saracen desert dwellers just for the hell of it? The knights were a sight to behold:

From the dip of a waadi emerged in the front a Knight in plate and chainmail armor, his helmet shut over his face so he was nothing but a perfect weapon on all edges. There was no trace of humanity in him. The knight lowered his lance and shield, a billowing white cloak flying over his shoulders like great wings. He looked like a ghost, a djinn as they would call it. A brilliant red cross shone on his white cloak fluttering in the breeze of his momentum. Mudhil's vision was swimming in and out from the overwhelming pain, but still he could see that this knight was flanked by two others. These knights did not cover their faces with their helmets, but were still protected from head to toe in steel. These knights wielded long swords and scimitars from Damascus- and they did not even appear to be looking at them.

The knight in front waved his shield, a clear signal for them to get out of the way. But Amir was not strong enough to carry or drag Mudhil, and their camels did not know the signal. They stamped their hooves in panic and bleated repeatedly. Amir and Mudhil's hands shot up in surrender. The Templar knight lowered his shield again and slightly slowed his pace, shouting something in Frankish to his two flanking knights. These knights kept a hard gallop, and rode past their Master in twos. Like this, they were able to ride around the mess in the middle of the slight chasm where Mudhil and Amir stranded themselves. They strengthened their pace once they were in the clear, and continued their pursuit of the bandits.

Now the first knight was moving ever closer, and what small relief the brothers had was quickly dashed as they realized that this knight meant to trample them. It was not unheard of. But instead the knight spun his horse around with a swift movement that should not have been possible in such cramped quarters. With a soft whistle behind his metal plate headwear, he calmed his steed and dismounted in a smooth motion.

Mudhil was tired and dropped his arms. The knight immediately froze and his hand flew to the sword strapped to his waist. Mudhil's hands shot back up again.

"Please," Amir was begging him in Arabic, the idiot. "We will give you all our gold. Just leave us be." He even pointed to the sack where their gold was hidden. They couldn't tell if the knight was even looking at them or not. The air grew stifling hot in an instant.

Yet another knight, one of high rank as well, came up over the waadi in the distance. This knight rode on an Arabian stallion much like the ones the Bedouin rode on their raids. The sight was so odd the Mudhil dropped his arms again. They stood there, silent and afraid as the two knights met each other and conversed in Frankish. The second knight dismounted and raised his fist to his left breast. _A Templar salute?_ Both knights then lifted their helmets up and away, revealing their heads wet with sweat. The first knight, the one that had stopped, had a gleaming bald head and a stern face. The other knight, the one that had just joined them, his hair was the color of the sands and he had such striking blue eyes.

"Well, Monsieur de Sonnac, what do you make of them? Are they bandits or are they innocents?" Robert de Sable motioned to the two young men sprawled on the ground before them. They both looked scared to death. "I value your opinion and teaching, Jacques, but do not lie to me." His hand tightened over the hilt of his longsword.

"I would never lie to you, my Lord," Jacques shook his head and lowered his voice so that it might soothe the Bedu men who must be wallowing in fear by now. "See what is on their heads?"

"The blue turban?"

"Not a turban, my Lord. A _kufiyah. _This is a large square scarf that the nomadic people use to shield their heads from the sun. They are not the men we are looking for. Look, they appear to have just returned from a day of selling their wares. They are not equipped to ambush and loot as our lot was."

"Hm." Robert nodded. "Good. So what are we to do with them, do you think? Could they tell us about…"

Jacques shifted on his feet, wracking his mind for what he knew of the Bedouin. "They will not know, my Lord, and even so I will have a hard time speaking to them. See, the Bedu people speak in their own dialects. They might not even understand proper Arabic."

"Try them. We have no time, Jacques. That bastard Altair is killing our men. We cannot pass up a possible clue."

At the sound of Altair's name, Mudhil tensed and Amir looked away. Jacques caught this when Robert was still speaking.

"Understood, Sir. I'll handle this from here."

De Sable smiled sickeningly sweet, "I knew I could always trust you, my friend. _D'accord,_ catch up when you are done." He replaced the helmet on his head and mounted his horse with a smooth, practiced motion. With one light press of his heels to the steed's flanks, he was off.

* * *

End of Chapter 14

* * *

You never know what you had until it's gone, and even so if it happens slowly enough, you don't even notice it. If you put a frog in a container full of room-temperature water, it will be happy. Start boiling the water, and the change occurs so slowly that the frog never notices. It never has the sense to jump out. The frog boils to death without ever sensing that anything was wrong.

It's been a while, but if you've read,** please review. I really appreciate it. **


	15. Image 511: Bilqis, Virgin Queen

_He bade her kneel by the bed while he undressed himself, all the while reassuring her to not be afraid, to not be shamed. There had been no wedding, but he was her husband all the same. Aasha had never been as petrified as she was now; she truly had no idea what was about to happen to her. All the things Nadia told her that used to make her blush were useless now. Though she was the one who tempted him to bed, Aasha never truly wanted this. This was not how she'd imagined her first time to be, after all._

_Malik's robes dropped to the ground. Though his hands were shaking with excitement, he was surprisingly adept at unlacing his trousers, and it wasn't long before the head of his arousal peaked out from the opening of his pants. It had no eyes, but the gypsy felt it was looking right at her. This wasn't the first time she saw this part of Malik after all, but he was never erect until now. She didn't know what to make of it- its girth was impressive, but what was she to do with it? Certainly she had never been taught what to do. Perhaps if she were raised a courtesan she would have some idea. _

_"Get on the cot," said Malik gruffly, "spread your legs." _

_She tried to rise with as much dignity as possible, but instead her knees buckled under her. Malik scooped her up with one arm and set her on their cot, his arousal brushing against her bare thigh for one horrifying moment, leaving a trail of wet stickiness in its wake. "What is that," Aasha touched the sticky substance, thoroughly concerned that Malik was infected and oozing pus. _

_"That is my want for you," the Dai's voice was so hoarse, so rough against her neck as he breathed in her scent. He was all musk and sweat and he smelled like fire. Aasha blinked twice, rolled her head back as violent shivers rattled through her body. She noticed that there was a crack in their ceiling. She would have to fix it soon. A thin layer of sweat gathered on her skin, and she cried out when Malik took one of her breasts in his mouth and sucked hard on the areola. "Oh-" Did mothers not feed their babies this way? Certainly she had no milk to give, so why was Malik sucking at her like that? _

_It was not pleasant at all. _

_He climbed over her now, completely naked and doing a shockingly good job of keeping himself upright. Forcing himself between her parted legs, he at last pulled away from sucking at her bosom and took in the sight of the woman he called his wife. "You are beautiful. Oh so beautiful." His fingers, stained deep with ink though he'd washed it just now, trailed over the jut of her pelvis under her skin. The freezing fingers then found themselves in the pendulum shaped hair at her most private part, the touch of them making her jerk on the bed. Too cold. Too cold. They felt like snakes on her skin. Suddenly the fingers were gone- Malik grasped Aasha's jaw and made it so that she looked at him. She didn't even realize she'd been looking at the ceiling all this time until now. "You cannot understand," he punctuated while he kissed her chastely on the lips, "you don't understand how much I've wanted this. Every night you slept by my side and I could not have you. It was torture, Aasha." He marvelled at the blossom laid out before him, Aasha's black hair spread out around her face like the legs of a giant spider, spilling off the edge of their cot. _

_Under his scrutiny, Aasha felt as though all her features were in the process of scrambling themselves. Traitorously, the lips of her opening clenched and unclenched itself in anticipation or fear. Whatever it was, she could tell it was making Malik's mouth water. As soon as he dropped his grip on her jaw, she looked again to the curious crack on the ceiling. The incense Malik took to this room was too strong and too close, the smoke of it curling into obscure images above her head. The smell of its woody perfume was making her dizzy, but she didn't want to tell Malik to move it. So instead Aasha made out letters and pictures in the waving smoke. Once in a while she saw a woman, or maybe it was a fruit. _

_Malik licked his fingers, coating them with his saliva before pressing them to her virgin opening. Too cold. Too cold. _

_"Aahhh…" Instinctually upon the sting, her hips lifted away and out of his reach. _

_"Shhhhh," he shushed her, using his one hand to push her hips back down so her lower back pressed into the sheets. "Trust me." _

_Yes. Aasha should trust him, because Malik had done this before and so he must know what he was doing. She exhaled slowly, forcefully. _

_Malik tried to push two fingers in her opening, but the movement caused her too much pain. "Stop," she begged of him, "it hurts." He did not answer her, just made low hissing sounds with every inhale. Aasha couldn't shake the feeling of having a snake between her legs, prodding at her entrance. "Malik?" _

_The Dai came to the conclusion that she was too tight for two fingers. After all, he'd never actually lain with a virgin before. Masyaf's concubines were far from it. He tried his index finger, and was pleased to it admitted into her burning opening. She was hot like she held the sun in her belly, and Malik's erection twitched in anticipation. _

_Aasha herself was too terrified to say anything. The feeling of his finger in her body, wiggling around like that, touching places where even she had never touched, was so alien that she didn't know what to make of it. But at least there was no pain. _

_"Are you ready?" Malik asked her, though the tone of his voice told her he didn't care what her answer was. He was going to take her then and there. He didn't want to break her hymen with his_ fingers,_ after all. _

_Her hand flew up from its place at her side to clutch at Malik's wrist settled between her legs. "Wait." She didn't want this to happen anymore. She'd changed her mind._

_This was the first time she'd actually initiated a touch since the beginning of this ordeal, and so the shock of her hot palm did in fact stop Malik. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, or maybe to apologize. Instead what came forth was a blurted riddle: "What when alive does not move, yet when its head is cut off, moves?"_

_Malik stared at her, dumbfounded, until he dissolved in laughter. "Oh, so you are Queen Bilqis now?" _

_"I…" Queen Bilqis was the love of King Solomon. He wished to marry her but she always refused him. She was the Virgin Queen of Sheba, and her reign depended on her being a virgin. The riddles she posed to him to test his worth were well known among the Saracens. Her father had told her these stories once, and so did Nasir in Masyaf when he felt kind enough to entertain his apprentices. _

_"Timber," her… her_ husband_ breathed against her clenching jaw, "the timber used to build a ship." He leaned back, spat on his hand and palmed his erection, producing a strange squelching sound. Aasha's hips were lifting off the sheets again, but this time Malik barely noticed. "So if you are Queen Bilqis, then that makes me King Solomon." With that, he guided his member to Aasha's opening and pushed its bulbous head past her ring. He heard her whimpering, and her quaking legs were threatening to throw him off balance. He fought between his conflicting desires of lessening her pain and wanting to draw out his pleasure as long as possible. _

_The incense was beginning to irritate Aasha's eyes, making them water. She pulled her consciousness together into a ball at the base of her throat so she would not have to feel the painful sting of his entry. Why had Nadia ever said that this would be pleasurable? Why did Khitan say this would make her happy? Of them all, only her mother was right. She remembered now what Sharma told her. She would rather cut off her breasts than have Malik sweating over her, his erection drilling into her like this. _

_She was jolted out of her memory when the tip of his member breached a barrier somewhere in her, and Malik quickly bottomed out. Their hips met with a thin rivulet of blood connecting them. Aasha groaned long and high, smoothing a hand over her belly in awe that he was not piercing her organs. He was in so deep, and she felt every inch of him, every heartbeat and pulse shaking her inner walls. There was no more pain now, but it wasn't pleasurable either. It was like someone was rubbing a grainy stone against her skin. Was this was Radha had felt when Abdul raped her? No- she had been in far more pain. Aasha had to be strong now for her sister. _

_Malik, on the other hand, was groaning profusely. He seemed to be in bliss, pulling his member out slowly so that only the head was buried in her warmth, taking in the sight of the blood coating his flesh that was the evidence of Aasha's purity. He slammed back in, and he must have pushed against her lungs or something like that as all of Aasha's breath was forced out in a pained keen. He was half leaning over her now, balancing himself on his forearm and thrusting steadily into her. The cot rocked against the wall, its wooden frame moaning louder than either of them. Not knowing what she should do, Aasha laid her hands against Malik's chest. That felt strange, so she gripped his shoulders instead. That made him lose his balance, so she just dropped her arms by her side and spread her legs wider. _

_She wished he would at least say something. He seemed to be enjoying himself though, making pleasured moans peppered with hisses of "yes…". It was the strangest feeling. Aasha felt her soul floating above her body, taking form in the tendrils of smoke above Malik's heaving back. Their shadows danced along the walls. Her father used to carve animals out of wood and parade them in front of their campfire so their shadows were projected onto the sheepskin tents. It made for wonderful fun at night. Hers and Malik's shadows now looked like they were acting out some skit in which he was eating her. She was so absorbed by these strange insights that she didn't even notice Malik speaking at first. _

_"So, Queen Bilqis," he slurred in his haze of pleasure, picking up his pace and hence losing the rhythm he'd established. "Seven leave and nine enter… Two pour out the draught and only one drinks. What am I?" _

_Jerked across the cot with his erratic and powerful pounding, Aasha barely had the breath to answer. She knew he was about to finish, and O Allah please let this end… "S-seven days is the w-woman's menstruation. Nine months is the woman's pregnancy… Aaah!" His angle of movement changed, and he was pistoning now into the ceiling of her walls and it was strikingly painful. Her choked breaths turned into short sobs, and Malik obviously did not see her discomfort for his eyes were blanketed in a film of lust. "Her two b-breasts… uhhhnn… bring forth milk and only… only one drinks- Ooohhh!"_

_Malik jammed himself deep into her, curling into her form and nearly picking her off the bed with his movements. "Mmmmmmmm," he growled low in his chest, spilling his seed into her body with several shallow, jerky thrusts. It was this final movement from Malik that at last woke some semblance of pleasure in Aasha, and she shuddered hard against his sculpted chest._

_Soon the tension in his muscles drained out, and he rolled to his back on her side. He was breathing so heavily, like he'd just come out of battle, while she was nearly suffocating because her lungs didn't seem to be working. She searched for that crack in the wall again, but couldn't find it because her tears were blurring her vision. She turned away so Malik wouldn't see them, but the slight shift actually caused them to spill out from the corners of her eyes. Traitors. _

_Malik pushed himself up on one arm and noticed the wetness on her cheeks. He couldn't see too much of it because her hair was clumped and stuck to her face, but inwardly he was proud that he'd given her so much pleasure that she cried. "Allah, allah, allah," he prayed to himself, for he had just received a great gift. _

_The incense on their bedside had burned out, and the candle nearly burned itself out. He rolled off of their cot to change the candle, smiling and trembling in post-coital bliss. Aasha was shaking now. She must be cold, he reasoned. Pressing a soft kiss to the jut of her shoulder, he reveled in the heat emanating from her body, glowing dimly in the dying candlelight. The former assassin pulled up the sheets so that they covered her lithe body, his eyes holding at the bloom of bright red against the white fabric. It was the evidence of her purity. Malik would treasure this blanket and never wash it. He'd keep it somewhere safe, though he really didn't need to. What Aasha had given him would always be his and his alone._

* * *

Despite its reputation as a Holy City, Jerusalem had its dark alleyways just like everywhere else on this earth. As Acre beheld its sacrilegious brothels in its bowels, so did Jerusalem welcome the thieves and tricksters of the underground to sell their stolen goods. Aasha never noticed the extensive black market in the districts when she was merely visiting for missions. But once one began to live in its heart, one had no choice but to become immersed in it. Malik was very familiar with this place, as many assassins and informers preferred to meet here where the guards were likely to turn their faces and the people did not ask questions.

In the sprawling marketplace there was a doorway to another world that few knew of. Jerusalem's jewelry bazaar was hidden from common view by a series of inconspicuous sheets hung from clotheslines between two buildings like laundry being hung out to dry every day. Here Aasha paused and clutched her shopping basket tighter to herself- did Altair know where to go? Not even the guards knew of this place; if they did, they would have arrested every man in here long ago. Or perhaps they had some sort of deal in place in which they could take some part of the profits earned by these stolen jewels.

Steeling her resolve, she pushed past the fluttering sheets and immediately it was as if she had stepped into another world. The bazaar was a busy, violent place lined shop after shop. Velvet cushioned cases of all colors were presented in each window, but even more bright to the eye were the customers. Wealthy men and women covered in gold and glistening stones, their perfumes mixing with the smell of roasted nuts and turmeric spice. The combination was not pleasant, and the air vibrated with the hum of money changing hands.

Aasha stepped forward into the bazaar and pretended not to be completely aware of how she was dressed like a humble housewife in comparison to the women here who looked like princesses. Some of these women looked to her for a moment or so before losing interest; not like they acted very interested in the jewels to begin with. In fact, they were dramatically unimpressed, acting disappointed to the utmost extreme by pointing out every flaw in the stone and every potential flaw in the designs of these pieces. The merchant thief just drew on his hookah and smiled at them, only halfheartedly trying to convince them otherwise. They were all playing their parts here, and so he would let them have their depraved sense of self-satisfaction. Eventually they would buy his pieces. They always did. Some of these merchants held her eye when she passed, their turbans glowing with silver threads. In a muddied corner of the bazaar a bald man was stirring a giant pot of milk as if in slow motion.

They could tell by the way she walked that she was a thief like them.

"Silks smuggled from China, all the way from China…" one merchant called out, trying to draw attention to his bundles of false silks most likely bought from Egypt. Another merchant was trying to sell "miracle medicine" that could heal a man from any disease or pain. Since this was quite common, Aasha would not have paid any attention to him had he not been wearing nothing but a white lungi like a man from the desert's edge. She couldn't believe they even let him come in here wearing that- it was sacrilegious. No wonder no one would speak to him.

"How do you know that?" Aasha asked him when she neared him. "What has it healed?" _Could it perhaps heal the coldness in her breast?_

"Oh," the man smiled toothily, "I'm not quite sure, but the man I bought it from was very certain that it worked. And he sold it at such a price that I'm sure there must be something to it! Here." He reached into a large muslin pouch and pulled out what looked like small slips of paper. "In here is a strange white powder. Mix it with water…" he made dramatic stirring motions with his hand, "and drink it!" he made to drink his imaginary water, as if it were not obvious. "Or put it in hookah. All pain… _gone_. You want to buy?"

Aasha looked about her and still could not see Altair. His white assassin's robes should be obvious among the brightly colored crowds here- mainly women, too.

"No thank you," she said to the… _merchant?_ She wasn't sure what to call him.

He grabbed her arm and his voice turned venomous, "I ask you again, girl. You want to buy?"

"Let me go," she hissed back, trying not to cause a scene. A cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She rarely came to this place without Malik at her side- this was in fact the first time she'd come here on her own. She had a dagger hidden in her sash tied to her waist, but if she were to hurt this man, there would be hell to pay.

"Didn't your mother tell you about coming out onto the street without your husband?" His voice grew in volume, and some of the bored women milling about were turning their heads to watch. It was always of great amusement to them when they could watch a poor woman being harassed and put back in her place.

"My husband is occupied." She wrenched her arm away, which only seemed to make the man more angry.

"And what a bad husband he is, that he won't accompany his own wife to the market! Pah!" He spat on the ground beside Aasha, but his spit ended up landing on some man's shoe.

Immediately he was struck hard in the nose and knocked to the ground with great force. The crowd gasped.

"I did tell her I was occupied," Altair took two steps forward and in a crude movement used his foot to grind into the downed merchant's groin, pulling painful howls from his throat. "I told her to wait for me here. You insult my wife, you insult me."

"I'm sorry!" the downed man shrieked, "please, stop!"

If she was more pious and a little more compassionate, Aasha would have begged for Altair to stop too. But she stood there and said nothing instead- partly because she felt the man should be punished, and partly because she just liked watching Altair. It was wrong and it was selfish of her, but she could not bring herself to care. Watching this man suffer gave her immense satisfaction.

Some of the women who'd gathered began to laugh. It amused them even more to watch a haughty man being proven wrong.

"You're a bag of shit," Altair snarled at him, "if I had my way I would castrate you, strap you bare assed on a mule and send you out to the desert so the Templars can laugh at you." He kicked him back and forth cruelly, wiping the spit off his shoe onto the man's now soiled lungi.

It wasn't until the poor man apologized profusely to both her and Altair that the assassin finally let him go scurrying across the ground in an effort to hide somewhere, _anywhere_.

Altair picked up the muslin pouch that was dropped and slung it to his own waist. "Come on." Snaking an arm around her waist, he led her out and away from the curious eyes bearing down on them. Aasha kept her eyes down until they were just out of sight, and then she turned on Altair.

"What were you thinking?" She flipped Altair's hood back so she could actually see his face, because _goddammit_ it was annoying when she was just talking to a _shadow_. It wasn't fair that he could watch her squirm and flush but she couldn't see _him_. "Half of Jerusalem has seen you now."

"So?" Altair shrugged, the edge of his mouth quirking up and making his scar dance on his lips. His eyes were as striking as ever- glowing faintly like the inside of the forge at Masyaf when they smelt down iron and copper to make weapons. And now those eyes glinted with mischievous air, and Aasha was transported several years back to those days when she and Altair scaled walls and hid in the rooftop gardens in Jerusalem, eating stolen oranges and sleeping with heads resting on each other's shoulders. They could not do this now- her skirt would catch on something and she'd fall. And that just wouldn't do.

When they were sufficiently alone, having crammed themselves into a cranny of a dilapidated alley, Altair opened the muslin bag again and peered inside. While Aasha was straightening herself out, Altair frowned at the bag's contents. "Aasha, do you know what this is?"

She had much to say to Altair, and so Aasha was justifiably incredulous that Altair would get so distracted so easily. "…No."

The former Master removed a small paper envelope from the bag and examined it more closely.

Impatient, Aasha sighed. "The crushed seed of the opium flower, I would presume. I have heard that it makes years pass like days in pure bliss."

Without the impressive appearance of his hood, the way Altair's ears flushed bright red was very noticeable. He tucked away the contents of the pouch and smiled dimly. "Right."

"You're ill," Aasha observed suddenly. She had not noticed the darkness under his eyes until now, or how his back slumped slightly. "You're either ill, or you're exhausted. Altair, what happened to you?"

From somewhere in another alley, a sitar was being played- probably some foreign performer.

"I've been working very hard," Altair replied simply. "No need to worry."

Aasha was not appeased. "What sort of work?"

"Assassinations. Missions from the Grand Master himself. It wouldn't be so difficult if I didn't have to investigate on my own like a novice." The Eagle crossed his arms and shook his head. "I don't remember when I last slept even halfway well." He shifted on his feet for a second or so before realizing again that he was not alone. "How are you?"

"I have been… well."

"Did you marry Malik?"

The former spy blinked once, and then twice. "I… no. What an abrupt question, Altair."

"I have learned long ago to be sorry for nothing- life is too short. I apologize to no one but to Allah… and maybe also to Malik." It was obvious that the memory of Kadar's death still haunted him. "I'm sorry, Aasha, for even though you are my friend and I love you, I cannot be with you if Malik does not wish it. I have that much respect for him."

Aasha rolled her eyes. "I have not married him," to which the assassin shot back without missing a beat, "but you have given yourself to him."

Her lips parted in shock. "How did you know?" Images of the previous night fluttered in the space of her skull, beating against her temples. She didn't need this right now, not when she swore she could still feel his slick on her thighs.

"I guessed."

Dead silence. Then, "what is that supposed to mean, Altair? I'll have you know that I am not a woman who-"

"It makes no difference what sort of woman you think I think you are…" Altair trailed off, checking if his own words even made sense. He was very tired. "What matters is that you are very unhappy, and you've called for me and I've come, but I don't know what you're asking of me now. So please- do not riddle with me."

"Then take me away from here, Altair."

This got his attention. Altair's surprise caused him to stumble a step back until his shoulders were flush against the wall behind him. "You're asking me to take you away, Aasha? To where?"

"I don't know." The tears began to well up. "I've never known, Altair. But all I know now is that I cannot stay."

Altair was almost afraid to ask. "…why?"

"Because I don't want any of this. Not here, not now, and not with Malik!" her voice cried shrilly, "I don't want to live my life filling holes in the walls and cleaning pots and pans when I know to do so much more. Last night I laid on my back under Malik and felt nothing but disgust, Altair. I couldn't look at him, I couldn't… I'm sorry."

All the color had drained from Altair's face. Thoroughly embarrassed that she'd just blurted out such a personal and publicly inappropriate experience to none other than Altair, Aasha turned away and hid her face in her hand. "You… you told me to not speak in riddles." She'd spoken riddles to Malik, and it hadn't stopped him. Queen Bilqis' challenges only kindled the fire of King Solomon's passion.

From behind her, Altair murmured softly, "I thought you loved Malik."

"I thought so, too."

When Altair said nothing, Aasha heaved an exhale and turned to look at him, dismayed when she saw that he'd pulled on his hood again. "No, Altair, please don't leave." She grabbed at his tunic and held on tight, "please. There was a time when I did not have to depend on you, but that time has passed. And trust me, I despise it. Altair, you are my only hope."

"I cannot take you away, Aasha. You agreed to come here." He was trying to pull her hands away, the hands that held him down. "I cannot betray Al Mualim, and if you were to suddenly disappear from here… _Malik would know._" Before she could argue, Altair added, "and besides, where would I take you?"

At a loss, Aasha could only drop her hands. "I'm a selfish person." She wiped away the stray tear that came leaking out of her left eye. "I am such a selfish person."

When she was very small, her mother tried to teach Aasha the importance of chastity. They'd long since accepted Allah as the One True God, but her mother and her mother before her remembered a time of Goddesses. So while her father was sleeping, Sharma took little Rani aside and told her stories. The Goddess Bahuchara Mata was assaulted in the desert by bandits. To preserve her life, she gave them all her jewels, gold, and precious spices. They took all of it and wanted for more, for she was beautiful and they desired her body. To protect herself from rape, the Goddess cut off her own breasts and offered them to the thieves in order to keep her virtue. The men fled in horror, and Bahuchara Mata bled to death in the desert sands.

_"But she died," little Rani had exclaimed, terror shaking her bones and rearranging her ribs with violent shivers._

_"But she died for her virtue," her mother corrected patiently, "and that is all that matters." The woman reached under her boyish tunic, folded a hand over her flat chest, and pinched one of her pert nipples. "Ow!" the girl cried, batting her mother's hand away._

She should have cut off her breasts and hidden them so Malik would not desire her. But instead she'd tried to control him with her body. She set a trap for him but accidentally ensnared himself. It was too little, too late, but now Aasha saw the world through a different lens. She had lost her virtue now, and no amount of praying or washing would cleanse her of her disgust.

Altair peeled away her headscarf, allowing her dark locks to spill out unbraided. Her eyes rose to meet his. The assassin's brows knitted together in concern. He pulled her scarf back up over the crown of her head and tucked her hair back into its folds. The woman dropped her gaze. "All people are selfish," said Altair, "you must not blame yourself for what was inevitable."

"That doesn't help."

"Aasha," Altair began tersely, "if you'd come to me a year ago and told me you wanted to run away… actually, if you'd told me this when we were on our way here to Jerusalem, when I escorted you here from Masyaf… _by God_, if you'd told me this then, we would have _run_ and _no one_ would ever be skilled enough to find us."

So Altair did want her after all. The sheer relief of this affirmation was overwhelmed only by the disappointment of the present. So it was too late. Aasha nodded in halfhearted acceptance. "Then this is a test from Allah the Merciful. He will not forsake me."

The assassin watched her pick up her basket again and tuck her hair back behind her ears. Without looking at him, she was edging her way back out the alley and into the street. While she did this, she sidestepped a muddy puddle in the ground. For some reason this stirred something in Altair- he understood fully then that if he let her go now like this, it was all going to end. They would never speak again.

"Stop."

She stopped, slowly circled around. "Yes?"

"I cannot save you from this… not now, at the very least. But I can take you somewhere for today." Why was his heart making such a clamor in his chest? The treacherous thing was like a beast banging on the bars to its cage. Speaking was a monumental task now. Slowly, surely, Altair formed the words. "…Would you like that?"

* * *

"No, that's… that's impossible." Mudhil clenched his fists tight until his knuckles were blossoms of white against his skin. "She is dead. My sisters are dead. Allah has willed it, and we have accepted His will."

Amir watched helplessly at his side, his eyes flickering from his injured brother to the Templar knight, looking so menacing in his sergeant's coat. He was yet a babe when his sisters were stolen, and hence he never knew the warmth of their smiles. He could not possibly yearn for their memory like his brother did. Instead he fingered the amulet hanging about his neck, the hand of Fatimah. There were good djinn and bad djinn- certainly this white man with the tongue of the Prophet was one, but Amir had yet to decide whether he was good or bad.

Jacques swallowed, rubbing his temple as he tried to recollect as much as he could. "I have seen a girl named Rani, and she did say she was a desert dweller. Dom, as we say it. _Bedouin,_ as you might say it. Very smart girl."

"Is- is she still alive?" The Saracens in general, even the desert dwellers out in the vast sands, had little respect for the Crusaders. They considered them too heavily armoured, pompous, always drunk, and constantly complaining of the heat. But the Templar knight was not like the rest of the white faced men- these warriors were to be avoided unless the Saracens had a superiority of ten to one, and even then massive losses should be expected. Unlike the other knights weaker in faith, like the Knights of the Hospital and the aristocratic knights from England and France, these knights did not fear death. The Templar knights were steadfast in their faith of paradise after death in battle, and this was both frightening and very worthy of respect to the Saracens. It is because of this respect that Mudhil did not feel disgust for begging the knight for what he knew. The knight seemed to consider them equals to an extent, and so Mudhil was ready to take advantage of this fact.

"I do not know," said the Franj, flipping back his white cloak and glancing at where his shield and sword was slung on the saddle of his horse. He could reach it in an instant if this encounter turned deadly. His stallion gave a short huff through his nostrils, disturbed by the presence of the Ubeidah brothers' camels who were giving him the stink eye. These beasts displayed their shared animosity in its fullest. In all honesty, Jacques had not foreseen that the conversation could have taken this route. Originally he meant to probe the men on what they knew of Altair. After they got over their shock on his being able to speak Arabic, quickly it became clear that Altair was nothing but a good man and welcome visitor to their tribe, and that they had little other connection to him. They didn't even know what he did or who exactly he was. When Jacques brought up his co-conspirator, Rani, the injured gypsy shot up as if he'd just sat on a hot rock.

"Is she well?" Mudhil reached into his shirt and pulled out a worn string of clay beads. "This was the necklace our father bought at market on… _on the day she was stolen_. He never got to give it to her." His voice took on an upward lilt until there was barely any sound left- he was overcome with emotion. "Where is she?"

Jacques did consider to what extent he should reveal her true identity. But then he remembered that this was a broken family before him, and his own motivations became irrelevant. It might not have been wise, but he told them what he knew. "She works for the assassins in Masyaf, as far as I am aware. She is healthy, at least. I have not seen her for much time, however."

While the older brother was still on the brink of crying in joy, the younger Bedu noticed the oddity in the situation. "Pardon, knight, but how did you know her?" What was left unsaid was: _did you try to kill her?_

"She is responsible for the death of my entire garrison, she and Altair." He left it at that; he didn't mention that she was the spy sent out against them, how he'd trusted her only to be betrayed. It was very intelligent of the assassins to use a female spy. He could never have guessed it in a million years.

The brothers didn't know whether to feel triumphant or sorry. They had no particular stance in the holy war- as long as it didn't affect their livelihood. It was a very strange situation, as they could not ask him to spare them now that they were connected to Altair, and they certainly could not ask him to help them find their sister. So they waited in the shifting sand while the sun moved overhead, slowly casting the shadow of the shrub they were leaning against longer and longer. The knight was clearly considering his options: whether he should take them as hostages, kill them, or let them go home. Amir had an idea. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a pouch of a hundred dinars. "We wish to thank you," he said as modestly as possible, offering the pouch to the Franj.

"In the name of God the Merciful, you speak to me out of ignorance and misrepresented good. I can accept nothing from you," the knight smiled warmly. "You are free to go."

"Please," Amir insisted, obviously knowing of the dangerous dance they were playing. He didn't want to be in debt to anyone, least of all a Templar knight, _a devil of the red cross_. His father sometimes told a story of how a boy asked a favour of a woman and was put in moral debt… years later when he fathered his first son, the woman revealed herself as a djinn and ate his son. The man had to repay his debt, and could do nothing. Certainly the knight before him was not a woman, but who's to say he wasn't a djinn and would one day return to collect his debts?

"I own no worldly possessions and hence cannot accept your coin…" Jacques grimaced, "you could, however, donate those dinars to the Knights templar. It will be very hard to explain to your clan, however."

"Then take this," Mudhil extended a shaking hand, in which was held the necklace meant for Rani. "You have seen her once- you may see her again. Please."

Amir shot his brother a dirty look. They were digging themselves deeper and deeper into the knight's debt. "Brother…"

The older retorted in offense, "be quiet, Amir!" Turning his attention back to the knight, Mudhil again begged him to take it. "Give it to her and have her know her family wants her back. She thinks herself shamed but she will always be my sister Rani."

Knowing that de Ridefort would be concerned if he did not catch up soon, Jacques had no more time to discuss. He took the necklace.

Mudhil held it tight on his end.

"Tell her we have set up camp near the Toga. She will know what it means. Do this and I will forever be in your debt. Do I have your word on the name of the True God and Mohammed his Prophet, blessed be His name?"

The knight lowered himself on one knee so he was level with Mudhil. "I will do this if you will kill Altair the next time he comes to you."

"What-" Mudhil sat up in shock, then cringed at the pain lacing up his broken shin. "this was never a condition of our agreement!"

"You are asking me a great favour, Bedu," Jacques growled, taking on a very menacing tone that harshly reminded the brothers of _who he was_ and what he was capable of. "I have no obligation to listen to or help you. Your sister hurt a person very dear to me, but it was Altair who killed him. If you will agree, I will seek her out. I need her out of my way anyway. And if Altair is with her, do I have your word that _you_ will have your sister and _I_ could have Altair dead?"

Mudhil nodded once, almost imperceptibly. "You have my word." He could not even look at his brother for the shame of what he'd just agreed to.

The knight tugged again on the necklace, expression stony. "Then yes- you have _my_ word on the name of the true God, his Son, and the Holy Virgin. Be sure not to cross me- I don't take well to tricks."

And Mudhil let go.

* * *

Aasha pulled up her skirt and did something she had not done for many months: she climbed a wall. All her senses attuned themselves to the present: the feel of the windowsill beneath her fingers, the graininess of the wall against her cheek, the smell of sun dried clay stone bricks. Altair climbed faster and was up on the roof before she reached it, and helped her over the edge. They were on top of some nobleman's home now, in Jerusalem's rich district.

"I'd forgotten how small they all look." She could not help but notice how self absorbed the peoples down below looked. She felt sorry for them like she was Adam looking upon the masses condemned to Jahannam. If she was Adam, what did that make Altair? Was he the true Prophet, or was he the Buraq which brought the Prophet Mohammed to Heaven? For some reason she was now being tormented with thoughts of God. Perhaps losing her virtue opened this door in her mind that she never even knew existed. She remembered now with a vengeance all the starlit tales of her past that used to bring her so much comfort. Tearing her gaze from below to look upon the horizon, Aasha held tight onto Altair hand. "_Bismillah_."

The man followed her eyes and observed the people down below going about their business like the tiniest of insects, scurrying back and forth, stuck in their daily routines and each of them thinking themselves _important_. The Eagle of Masyaf frowned- when had his thoughts turned so cynical? "Come." He pulled on Aasha's hand and led them to the nobleman's rooftop garden. They could not remain out here in the open; there were eyes everywhere. The garden itself was anything but inconspicuous; it was fluently decorated with precious stones, even on its gilded cupola. The curtains looked like tapestries or thin Persian rugs, if those sorts of things even existed. Yet Altair had led her here- he'd picked out this particular rooftop garden.

Once in, Aasha was quite surprised to find pot upon pot of turmeric plants, their bright yellow blossoms flavouring the air a warm peppery flavour. There was just enough space for one or two people to sit and lean against the garden's walls, which they did.

"I don't remember many owners actually using their rooftop gardens," she marvelled, taking in the sight of all these pots of turmeric. When her sister Radha was preparing to marry, her father took in large amounts of turmeric from any place he could get it. Turmeric was an important part of their marriage ceremonies. Aasha would never have such a ceremony; she'd given away her chance when she implored Al Mualim to take her in.

Altair plucked a flower from a nearby plant and laid it on his tongue. Sunlight fractured by the languidly waving curtains cut his face in two shades of light and dark. "I know the owner of this house. I saved his sister from a bunch of harassing guards, and since then he's been very helpful to me. Never have I met a kinder nobleman, I think. His sister is going to be married, and so…" He trailed off, knowing well that Aasha was feeling increasingly bitter.

She was grateful for the lack of space in this garden- it gave her an excuse to lay against Altair. Perhaps this was why he'd chosen this place to begin with. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Around," supplied Altair helpfully. "Around the cities and in the country- Acre, Jerusalem, and Damascus mainly. I've been put on a redemption job of sorts."

"I'd figured that," Aasha smiled, "you are more talkative now, Altair. What force of God has done this to you?" The Altair she remembered was always so closed off- unreachable.

The assassin's headshake was brief, the stubble at the base of his chin scratching Aasha's temple when he moved. It should be wrong that they were so close, but it certainly didn't feel that way. "No force of God, merely loneliness."

There in the heat of the midday sun, Altair and Aasha spoke until they couldn't smell the flowers. Altair spoke of his assassinations in Acre and Damascus, quoting their Grand Master's words. "Nine men who need to die," he said, his voice softer than Aasha could have expected given the frown on his face. He gripped one of Aasha's hands and used his thumb to smooth the inside surface of her palm, giving off an odd impression that he was reading it like some fortune teller. "They are plague-bringers, war-makers… Their power and influence corrupt the lands, ensuring that the Crusades continue. This is what I've been told by our Grand Master, and so for him I do my work and see to their deaths. Tamir and Abu'l Nuqoud of Damascus, Talal of Jerusalem… all these men have fallen to my blade."

"You mentioned Acre before… what did you do there?"

A low growl resonated from Altair's breast, startling Aasha only slightly before she settled into the sound. It reminded her of the sound Maymun made when she fed him oats in brown sugar. "I went to Acre to assassinate Garnier de Naplouse, the Grand Master of the Knights of the Hospital. I failed."

The sound of some sort of celebration happening in the streets below distracted Altair briefly by Aasha's silence. He was brought out of his stupor when the wait on his frame shifted. "Why kill the Grand Master of the Knights Hospital? I understand that he is a doctor and hence he treats the Crusaders… but is it not unlike our Grand Master to order an assassination solely for this reason?" Al Mualim was a fair man- he would not bring death upon a man who sought to heal and relieve others of their pain.

Altair pressed his lips together and exhaled forcefully. Aasha had to work to suppress the absurd giggles- Altair was acting like Maymun now, too. "If only you could have seen… if only you could have heard the agonized screams that came out of that… that hospital. He was conducting tests on his 'patients', Aasha. Horrible experiments. I witnessed him break a man's legs to keep him from escape." He had to take a moment to collect himself, and Aasha realized how desperate Altair must have been to be able to tell someone of what he saw- anyone. By God the Merciful, he must be so lonely. "I followed him deep into the hospital. I saw all sorts of revolting things… crazed patients flailing about with wild eyes, those dead eyes. I caught him alone in his quarters and was about to slay him when he discovered me! Imagine that- someone finding _me_. He surprised me at first by accepting his fate, but he surprised me more by being concerned about those patients he called his 'children'. The things he told me… I couldn't tell if what I was doing was right anymore, Aasha. I couldn't kill him."

"You truly believe that he was helping his patients?"

"Not at first. But now that I consider it, he could be speaking the truth. The patients might have illness in the head, or maybe they are possessed by _djinns_, I don't know." His face crumbled, a look of stark misery crossing over his features. "Aasha, I know not what to do. I could not kill him and I fled. I lied to Al Mualim and said that I was discovered and forced from the city. Al Mualim told me de Naplouse was lying, but I don't quite trust that he knows the truth either."

"But you should have killed him." Aasha was blunt in her delivery, hoping that Altair had not fallen so far as to question the motives of their Grand Master. "I don't understand why you saw fit to flee." Her words would have been considered rude had she been anyone else. Altair was silent for a long time. _Had he fallen asleep?_

Malik was going to wonder where she was soon. Usually she returned in the early afternoon at the latest. She hoped that he'd try to leave the Bureau in search of her. She hoped he'd stop at the door and swallow a dense pill of shame in the knowledge that he would be shunned as a cripple walking the streets alone. Above all, she hoped he could discover again just how much he needed her.

But for now, she tucked herself into Altair's side like she once shared a hammock with him in some faraway camp on some long past mission. She wished now to go back to that time, when they had so much ahead of them and everyone was happy (more or less), alive, and eager still to see the next day's sunrise.

She was so concerned now with the future. If only she knew then that her future would be nothing like she could possibly imagine at the time. Unbeknownst to them, in Acre Robert de Sable was building his forces in anticipation for Altair's return to complete what he'd begun.

The Eagle dipped his head, clouds settling over his brow. _No, definitely not sleeping, then._ "There was one more thing… De Naplouse had Nadia."

"Nadia?!"

"Shh!" Altair pressed his palm over her mouth to silence her. His trained ears picked up on the sound of footsteps on the roof- a guard. Every line of his frame tensed, and his neck craned out to listen.

When the perceived danger passed, Altair saw fit to remove his hand, keeping a close watch on Aasha's face to see that no line had been crossed. "I'm sorry." He had no knowledge of what Malik had done with her, and could not venture to guess. Thankfully, Aasha just curled herself in tighter and requested in her usual demanding tone that Altair tell her all that he'd seen.

"No," he shot at her, "I can't, because it is not your job to worry about Nadia."

"She is my friend," she was seething, her composure having changed completely. "Altair, why is she with de Naplouse?"

He sighed, weighing the consequences and deciding it was better not to incur her wrath and push her to do something stupid due to curiosity. "She was sent out as a scout. The Knights of the Hospital are barely as chaste as the Knights of the Temple. She… didn't make it back. We all thought she was dead. De Naplouse had a knife to her throat and I couldn't risk her life, Aasha. I couldn't do to you what I'd done to Malik."

Her friend Nadia was in danger. _The courtesan girl who'd been her one and only true companion in all those years at Masyaf._ If there was anyone left that Aasha had to fight for, it was Nadia. She regretted instantly all the times she did not respond to her missives, and _why hadn't she questioned it when the pigeons stopped coming?_ "Altair, you have to take me with you." Now that she'd experienced the horrors of womanhood, knew what Nadia had to endure on every mission of hers... the bond between them strengthened tenfold. Nadia had always tried to protect her. It was Aasha's turn to protect _her_ now.

Gripping her shoulders and squeezing hard to punctuate his point, Altair shook his head. "No. Aasha, you will stay here. I cannot make right what has happened to Malik, what I've done to Kadar. But I will not make this same mistake with Nadia, I promise. I will bring her back to Masyaf safe and sound in less than a fortnight. Please, trust me in this."

"Altair!"

"No!" His hold on her tightened before he dropped his hands completely, aware that he was close to hurting her. "Aasha, I am not going to lose you."

"You are losing me by leaving me here!" She argued, "if you don't take me with you, I'll gather my own provisions and take Maymun out for the journey to Acre. You taught me the roads to take to get there from Jerusalem, Altair. I know all the wadis to camp in, all the guardtowers to avoid."

Altair couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was flabbergasted, and his next words were jerked out despite him knowing that the battle was already lost. "You wouldn't dare…"

She cupped his face in her hands, no longer afraid of what would happen should she touch him. She'd gone beyond the point of fearing contact now. To touch Altair's face was like touching her own skin. Flesh was flesh. "My dear friend," she mouthed, her breath lingering on his open lips. "I have nothing left to lose. Take me with you or I go alone."

* * *

_End of Chapter 15._

* * *

Guys I don't know what happened, but I think my muse is back. I admit that the last chapter or two have been sub-par, but I think it's getting better. **What do you think? **

I included some Islamic legend in this chapter, and hopefully I incorporated it in a way that made sense in the context of the situation. Losing her virginity was not just a physical and emotional barrier that Aasha has breached; it also broke metaphorical and spiritual boundaries.  
I'm also deviating from canon plot by having Altair fail to assassinate Garnier de Naplouse. I'm going to have everything converge there and it'll be the last arc for this fic. All loose ends will be tied up, hopefully.

The **djinn** are spirits. There are good djinn and bad djinn, and they can take the form of animals, plants, and even people.  
**Bismillah** means "in the name of God", and is spoken as a way to express awe, to evoke Allah's protection, or as the beginning of holy verses. In fact, every Sura of the Qur'an (except the ninth) begins with "Bismillah".  
You've probably all seen the **Hand of Fatimah** before. It's an amulet of protection against evil spirits, danger, and the evil eye.  
The desert nomad tribes used to **worship a number of Gods and Goddesses** before the Prophet brought forth the word of Allah as the One True God. Then the tribes converted to Islam and religious bloodshed was avoided; this is why many scholars credit Islam as the unifying force of the Muslim world.

**Please review if you've read!** Thanks to all who have reviewed so far! Even if it's something small, getting feedback from readers does wonders for author morale.


	16. Image 597: Richard the Lionheart

Robert de Sable swept his knight's mantle up and across his head in a broad, circular motion. The thick folds settled over his strong shoulders, the red cross of the Templars displayed over his left breast. He would not be wearing such hindering outfits was it not for the fact that he was tasked with escorting Richard the Lionheart across the way from Jerusalem to Acre.

After a long siege, Acre was back in Christian hands, which raised the Crusaders' morale to no end. Richard himself and Phillip of France had led the siege, and the occupying infidels surrendered after constant bombardment weakened its defences and ruthless starvation smote them for their heresy. Following the winning of Acre, Richard gave de Naplouse jurisdiction over Acre's poor district, trusting him to give good Christian teaching to the wretched infidels. Richard was not very happy about this arrangement, but it could not have gone any other way- de Naplouse had invested too much coin in the Christian army to be granted anything less. As a goodwill visit, the good King was risking life and limb to observe how Acre was being run. Though all the King's advisors and knights begged him not to endanger his self, he was nothing if not stubborn. Robert moved to shut the catch that secured the cloak to his chest, and paused long enough to arouse King Richard's attention.

"What ho," challenged the King in good spirits, leaning back in a grand yawn. The morning sun beat down upon them constantly, the rising heat droning on like the unending buzzing of insects at night. "What keeps my best knight's attention today, Robert? Pray tell." He was always peppier in the morning before the challenges of the day began to wear on his brow. King Richard enjoyed his solitude in the morning, and demanded always that his servants leave him be. "Shame on the man unable to clothe himself," he always said to his servants before shooing them away. This was why he preferred travelling with his knights- his men understood him, and did not quibble when they caught him sleeping on the ground as they did.

Quickly snapping his head to and fro to ensure that they were alone, Robert guided the King into back into the shade of their camp. Their knights had not yet risen- the commander always rose before his men, after all. For now, the narrow five-men tents hastily set up in the desert's shifting sands were still, quiet snores escaping from some of the upturned flaps. They'd just dismissed the last two sentries, and the young knights were off feeding their horses a breakfast of oats. Sixteen knights in total had joined with their traveling force now to escort the King of England. Clad in suits of supple under mail over which they wore matching mantles embroidered finely with the Templar crest, one could not tell which man was King. "My liege, there is a matter close to my heart that is beginning to disturb me."

"Disturb _you_?" Richard laughed, obviously unmoved by the knight's discomfort, "I am disturbed that you are not jostling towards breaking fast this morning, Robert. Your appetite has always been astounding. If this is about the ransom again, I assure you not to strain yourself…" In exchange for sparing the lives of the Saracen defenders, Salah ad-Din was to pay a ransom of 200,000 gold pieces, release 1,500 Christian prisoners, and return the Holy Cross. "For all those horrid crimes, the infidel dog deserves to be struck down by God Himself. He knows his transgressions, and will pay the ransom when the time comes. I have heard that he holds himself to be honourable, and I will therefore give him the opportunity to prove it before God." More important than even the gold and the prisoners was the True Cross, discovered by the Blessed Empress Helena six hundred years ago. What the Christians regarded as a symbol of divinity, the Saracens regarded as a worthless piece of wood. There was no guarantee that Salah ad-Din and his infidels had not defiled it, and this Richard shivered to think.

"It is not this, my lord…" the Grand Master of the Templar knights began to dab at his brow with a handkerchief though it was surely not so warm yet.

A hawk flew overhead- both men looked to the movement by habit, then squeezed their eyes shut under the heavy scrutiny of the desert sun. One more day's travel until they reached Acre. Richard took a goat bladder flask from his horse's saddle and drank deeply before assuring the unusually skittish knight, "my liege, my lord, my liege… call me _Richard_, Robert. After all, it is you who taught me everything I know of sword and lance and shield and mace. I owe my success to you, my friend and mentor. Now, tell me what ails you so before our men waken."

De Sable shared a laugh with the King out of obligation but did not dare call him Richard. "My lord, I have heard terrible rumours of a knight in our midst, and I do entreat you to send him on his way."

"Rumors?" The humour drained from Richard's face, "my friend, you know that I am not a fan of waggling tongues."

"They say that he is a spy for the Saracens, my liege."

"Pardon?" the King chortled heartily, good spirits restored, "and which knight, pray tell, has had the unfortunate chance to fall under such ridiculous lies?"

Robert de Sable knew King Richard better than any man on earth, except perhaps King Phillip of France. The knight knew when the king was unsettled, and knew that at least his words were being heard. If Richard had truly believed his words to be false, he would have ordered Robert away. That he was his good friend related some amount of trust between them, Robert supposed. "Jacques de Sonnac," said Robert conspiratorially, "and I have observed his actions, my lord. He is grossly kind to Saracens and he knows their ways a little too well. I am convinced that he is a danger to our cause, my liege."

"Monsieur de Sonnac is one of our best!" argued the King with no small amount of amusement. He was still not convinced that one of his knights was a traitor to the Christian cause, but he was willing to entertain his friend. After all, refusing to listen to the worries of subordinates is a mark of bad leadership, and Richard prided himself as a good man and king. "By God, he is fluent in the Saracen tongue, in Frankish, and in English. Tell me, Robert, what man can you offer to replace Monsieur de Sonnac?"

"My liege," countered Robert, "that is simply the problem. Monsieur de Sonnac is very sympathetic towards the infidel dogs, and I have searched but uncovered nothing but scholarly work in his experience until now. It's all very odd."

"De Sonnac was injured as a young man, but recently he has become well enough to fight. And so he will fight. You know as well as I do that the Templar force has been more than decimated, my friend. We need every qualified knight to take up arms. Leave the ledgers to a more inexperienced fellow- I _need_ Jacques de Sonnac on my side as interpreter and knight."

De Sable had been trying but was unable to get a word in until now. "There are rumours also that he is consorting with the enemy, my lord."

"Consorting?" Richard raised a thick brow, "what exactly do you mean to say, Robert? And be frank for I have no such patience for tomfoolery today."

"I mean to say that he has committed sodomy, my lord!" the knight cried, then quickly suppressed his voice and pulled the king further from the camp so they would not be overheard.

"Sodomy?" Now Richard was truly concerned, "Robert, you make a very severe accusation."

"I am truly sincere in my words, my liege."

"And what evidence have you for such an accusation?"

"I have knights who say that he was very close with a certain Saracen informer, and that he consorted and conspired with him to bring about the scoundrel Saladin's victory over the fortress where they dwelled."

"The knights at Cesson?"

"Precicely."

"We lost some of our best men there before Hattin..!"

"It is as I say, my lord."

"And you mean to say," Richard pressed on, seriousness etched into every line of his chiseled face. He'd taken up a brisk pacing with now with his hands at his trim waist. His energy had always been irrepressible, even as a young man. "You mean to say that our good friend Jacques was _buggering_ this informer?"

"That is exactly what I mean to say, my lord," Robert nodded, "and I beg of you to remove this man from our midst immediately lest he cause us more trouble. I have witnessed him speaking with great kindness to the Bedu desert dwellers we encountered on our way here- he accepted something from them, I am sure, but he will not say what. My lord, he is a highly suspicious person, and-" at this point Richard had no choice but to cut in,

"but this informer you speak of…. He is dead, yes?"

"I do not know," Robert sighed, at a loss. "But-"

"But nothing!" the king of England exclaimed louder than was necessary, but he could not be persuaded to drop his tone. "So where is this infidel who was being gaggled, or who was buggering our good knight? It is evident that you know absolutely nothing of Jacques, Robert. My father was present for his knighting, and told me he found him honest, courageous, an exemplary warrior of God, faithful to a fault!" Robert was cringing from the king's admonishment, obviously not having expected to be rebuffed so bluntly in the face of such condemning evidence. King Richard, however, had more to say. "I swear to you, Robert, that in the time in which I have known Monsieur de Sonnac, I have never met –and nor could you- a more unlikely sodomite."

No man in Christendom, not even Richard's own father, could match his precise decisiveness. Stunned, de Sable dropped to one knee and begged for forgiveness.

* * *

"What will you tell him?"

Aasha faltered in her steps so that Altair nearly bumped into her from behind. "I don't know yet." Tucking her hair under her headscarf again, Aasha watched Altair bring the peaked edge of his hood up and over his head. They were not so different after all.

"I cannot be seen with you," he reminded her patiently, "these people know you here. They've seen you before, I am certain, and know you belong with Malik."

She was infinitely thankful that he had chosen to use 'with' instead of 'to', and was momentarily tempted to kiss him on the mouth for it. She would have done it, too, had she not felt somehow that he was wrong. "How will I know you won't leave me again?" As they were both visible now to all those passing the market, she kept her chin pointed down and her eyes studied the cracks and stains on the ground. Altair was shifting his weight from side to side, if the movement of his feet in leatherbound boots was any indication. While as a young girl she'd learned to read the truth in men's eyes, as a woman she'd learned to read men's feet.

"I have never left you," came the response, "and you will always know that I am near. Be careful, for the Holy War is upon us again." Altair had not told Aasha that he'd killed William de Montferrat, as he knew Aasha had concerning sympathies towards the Franj. But if he were to set foot now in Acre, he would be pursued. Agreeing to take Aasha with him was the worst decision he'd ever been manipulated into, but he had no doubt that she would take matters into her own hands if left alone. He was part annoyed and part overjoyed.

"Thank you," she said, knowing that there was nothing left between them. Altair nodded politely and passed her to blend in with a crowd of passing scholars, moving towards his next interrogation or some such thing. This left Aasha grasping at air, wondering if he was even here at all, or if he was merely a fragment of her growing madness.

As it was late, she bought a few eggs from the market, along with some goat's milk and flatbread. Oranges were coming in now, and though she knew the price would be cheaper if she waited a few more days, she bought two oranges anyway. The men here no longer questioned her as to the whereabouts of her husband. She no longer needed to explain, as they'd seen him with Malik many times and knew he was a cripple. In fact, many of them pitied her, and would slip in something extra when they were feeling exceptionally charitable. She paid for two oranges and came away with three.

"Thank you," she said to the young woman tending the stall with her father. The girl was in hijab already, and put a finger to her lips. "Shhh."

She was young enough to be her sister, but she was also old enough to be a concubine. It was interesting that women could be each other's greatest supports and each other's greatest adversaries.

Aasha knew Malik loved the taste and scent of oranges. He had a strange habit of keeping orange peels in a bowl to scent the room. It wasn't until after she'd bought all these things that she nearly felt the urge to kick herself. She'd made a decision to leave Jerusalem with Altair, and yet here she was buying food for Malik.

She did not feel right to lie to Malik, of course, and despite her feelings of discontent she had no desire to leave him to his loneliness. Malik was a cripple; she was meant to be his assistant- if she were to leave, who would cook his meals? Who would fix his baths and put him to bed when phantom pains kept him awake?

She had no doubt that Malik would find some way as he always had when faced with every which obstacle presented at him, of course. Malik, despite his faults in inadequacies, was a strong and resilient man. But she also knew that her leaving him to pursue her own desires was an exceedingly selfish action. For what if salvation came after suffering? Was she throwing away her only opportunity at happiness? What if Mistress Khitan meant to say that happiness, for women, came only after formidable suffering?

There was a story about this, she was sure of it. But she'd not reached for it or told it in so long that it just _would not_ come to her mind.

Aasha was still trying to recall this story when she reached the hidden door to the Jerusalem Bureau, and she almost missed the small earthenware jar at the doorstep. Intrigued, she set down her shopping and picked up the small jar. It fit in the palm of her hand. She removed its lid and saw that it was a mixture of white gravelly grains in an oily substance… The pungent scent was familiar enough to identify the contents as rock salt soaked in sesame oil. A common contraceptive well known among women in Jerusalem. It was likely not as potent as the salve Nadia and the courtesans used, but she would never be able to purchase that at any stall.

"Thank you," she said to no one in particular. Even though the chances that Altair was watching at this exact moment were slim, maybe he would be able to hear or feel her gratitude relayed on the wind.

* * *

From a bird's eye view, a grand story was unfurling.

In Jerusalem's Assassin's Bureau, Aasha had deflected Malik's questions and was preparing their dinner for the night, trying to scheme and trick her way out of his home and out from under his hand. Maymun had sore legs and was strangely fatigued, and probably would not make the journey to Acre. As night fell Malik's hand began to wander again, and Aasha excused herself to slather the sesame oil and rock salt concoction on her opening. After he sated himself, he asked very quietly if she was _happy_. Of all the things she could have said, she chose to be honest. Malik apologized, and it became obvious that she was not the only victim of their arrangement.

Meanwhile in the privacy of a rooftop garden in Jerusalem's poor district, Altair prayed to God. He fell asleep soon afterwards, sleeping deeply for the first time in many nights. He dreamed of angels and God and Jesus Christ. In his dream, Allah spoke to him and told Altair that the woman he would come to marry was made of sand, fire, and wind. She would have wings like a falcon and she would come to lead an army of djinn like King Solomon. In his dream Altair smiled and thanked Allah for His gracious prophecy. But then God revealed to him that a woman of Christ would come into his life, and that Altair would either _love her as his wife_ or _murder her as his enemy_. Scared beyond his wits, Altair promised to himself that the prophecy surely could not come true. How was he to meet a Christian woman, anyway? The very idea was preposterous.

In a goatskin tent on the edge of the desert, Mudhil was arguing with his brother while their father slept. So he had made a deal with a Templar knight. _So what?_ Amir did not understand what it was like when Mudhil lost his sisters. The pain and dishonour he suffered on their part tore his soul from his body. Knowing that his sisters were probably being raped, he had half a mind to cut off his own penis so he could be assured that _he himself_ would never be possessed to do such injustice upon a woman. And if all he had to do to get Rani back was to kill Altair, he would fulfill his part of the deal. Allah the Merciful said in his holy text to never kill a man but for just cause, and in his mind Mudhil had found find and justified such a cause.

In Masyaf, Al Mualim arranged a funeral for the love of his life. No more walks in the garden, no more talks in his chambers late into the night… no hands to steady him as he climbed the grand staircases, no sharp words to bring him back into the light. No more steady gazes from across a room, no more whispered words while the other pretended to sleep. Overcome with an irrational guilt that he had caused her death, Al Mualim declared to all of Masyaf`s spies and courtesans that they were free to leave the Order if they so wished. They were free to marry and have children if they liked. There would be no more women in the Order. There was no one who could replace Khitan, and to see these childless and empty women with their ignorant perceptions of fulfillment was a testament each day to the Grand Master's own failure. The women looked at each other and did not know what to do. The concubines in the gardens sobbed, for the spies and courtesans were now being _given freedom_ but like animals they continued to eat out of the hand of their master.

In Acre, the King of England had arrived to great fanfare. Representatives from the Order of the Knights Teutonic and the Knights of the Hospital, as well as chosen Knights from the Order of the Temple, warmly welcomed Richard's entourage through Acre's gates. Garnier de Naplouse was first to salute King Richard, dressed in his best finery and looking very impressive despite his age. Meister Sibrand also jostled for a place under the spotlight, saluting with great flourish by beating his fist on his left breast and standing at attention before the King. Having fought with him to regain Acre, both men felt strong loyalty and admiration for Richard, but also knew that he who acted _most loyal_ would receive the heaviest reward. German, English, or Frankish, the forces of Christendom would forever be at odds with each other.

In Acre's poor district, deep in the Hospitalier Fortress, Nadia fingered the iron plate embedded in the wall of her cell, distinguishing it as CELL No. 36. Long ago she'd run out of tears to cry at her confinement, and had come to realize that this had been the result of the choices she'd made in her life. And she had made choices. She could have run when she felt that something was not right, but instead she tempted de Naplouse. He was obsessed with lust at first, but the obsession slowly shifted form and mutated into something morbid. Now she was nothing more but a slave who was to part her legs for men, and by now she had to make peace with likely fact that her brothers and sisters were not coming for her. For some time she had a desperate sort of hope, scrounging up what paper and writing utensils she could find to scrawl messages to throw to the wind. No one came to her rescue… _and why would they?_ They probably believed she was already dead, and what if someone _did_ look for her and found her without a head as they found Layla? And what of Aasha, who must be living the life of a free woman with Malik? Perhaps now she was eating for two already, and the thought of Nadia was far in the recesses of her mind. Nadia would have died or gone mad if it weren't for the thoughtful man in the cell next to her.

In CELL No. 37, Imad El-Amin handed Nadia some more bread rations. As a man, he was always given more food. The frazzled woman took the bread gratefully through the space between their cell's bars, and thanked him like always. "Allah is Great," she said, praising his kindness. Aside from her bell-like voice, Imad was alone in this alley of the fortress's bowels, where the floors were slick with excrement and rats and spiders climbed the walls. He thought of fair Jacques, and held in his mind that his knight was alive somewhere, perhaps looking for him. _Don't come for me,_ he wanted to tell him, _I am no longer worth your love. I was never worth your love._ He could not convince Jacques to betray his Order, even when his entire garrison was destroyed. Jacques could not convince Imad to renounce Islam, even when it seemed Allah had deserted him in every possible way. Jacques' Bible condemned him, as did Imad's Qur'an. Still they ran away together for lack of knowing what else to do, but it was not long before Salah ad-Din's men found them. To save Jacques from becoming a prisoner to the Sultan, Imad pretended to kill the knight (he knocked him unconscious, of course. Imad would never hurt him), and surrendered himself as a prisoner. He was loaded into an oxcart and imagined Jacques' anguish when he discovered Imad was lost. The Arab came to fight as a soldier in Salah ad-Din's army in defense against the Christian forces besieging Acre, but when they lost he was again taken prisoner before he could escape. Now imprisoned as a potential bartering piece against Salah ad-Din, (the Sultan was very impressed with his knowledge of Frankish) Imad could only wait as his life hung in the balance. It was only a matter of time, he believed, before they declared him useless and had him slaughtered.

In the Acre Citadel, King Richard's primary residence, Robert de Sable was pacing back and forth. It had just come to his knowledge that less than a fortnight ago, William de Montferrat had been assassinated on these very grounds. Richard himself was heavily displeased despite his own dislike of the man, and was currently brooding in his chambers. An assassin, a bastard spawn of Masyaf, was responsible for his murder. Robert remembered how the assassin had stolen the artefact of Solomon's Temple, which was fabled to be the Holy Sepulchre itself. But when Robert pursued the assassin back to Masyaf, somehow the jackals had God on their side, and flushed the Crusaders out. _And so was it God's will that Templar men were being killed by these disgusting assassins?_ Robert was at a loss. Several other men in Damascus and Jerualem also were being eliminated with startling precision, all men he had dealt with personally in the quest to regain the Holy Land. Sweat beaded on his brow as his pace quickened. Surely Richard did not know of his plans to take power over the Holy Land after the war was over… _There was nothing wrong with this goal,_ he reasoned with himself, for Richard would likely leave him in charge anyway as he tended to his feuding family back in England. Robert had made sure that all his contacts feared his wrath. So how did the assassins know? And were they coming for him?  
It was Jacques de Sonnac, he was sure of it. The so called "knight" was not only consorting with the Saracens, but he must be an informer for the assassins! Of course he'd found out about Robert's schemes, and was trying to bring him down! Robert needed him out of the Order and exiled far away, or perhaps even killed… but there was no way of going about this legally without arousing Richard's suspicion. _What to do? What to do?_

Said knight was listening to the cracks in the walls, walking the halls of the citadel with sure steps. Jacques continued to explore the citadel's capillaries and spaces until he came across a queer sight: a lone white feather lying on the floor at the foot of the late Monsieur Montferrat's desk. It was too perfect to have been carried here on the wind. It looked like the tokens the Masyaf assassins carried on their person when they worked their trade. He stopped one of the knights crossing the space to ask if anyone had seen the assassin. "Des robes _eugh_… white, a scholar," said the young Frankish knight, blushing red with embarrassment. Jacques asked him in his native Frankish if the assassin's name was Altair. The knight shook his head, "je me souviens pas, Monsieur." _I do not remember._

Back in Jerusalem, Aasha awoke in the morning to the muffled sound of a quiet conversation in the Bureau. Wrapping a thin sheet around herself, she padded to the doorway and lifted the flap separating their sleeping quarters from the hall. The Bureau workroom was further down this thin hallway, but now she heard footsteps coming towards her. Letting the flap fall back into place, Aasha tumbled herself into her cot and was still, pretending to sleep. She didn't know why she felt the need to pretend, but nonetheless the spy was glad that she knew how to control her breathing to be convincing.

Her eyes were closed of course, but her ears picked up on the slight rustle of the flap to the room being raised just slightly. A few moments of silence. Aasha heard light breathing- Malik and his companion, whoever he was, were looking at her. "She is still asleep." This was Malik's voice, low and careful. _Who was he speaking with?_

"I'm sorry to do this."

She barely contained her gasp. That was unmistakeably Altair's voice. _How and why were they on speaking terms suddenly?_

"You have _much_ to be sorry for, Altair, but you should not be sorry for this."

Altair's voice was strained, "Malik-"

"Altair!" the name was flung almost hatefully. "She is not happy with me, and I do not know what to do to make it right. I already knew before you came this morning that she had spoken to you. I searched for her all of the day yesterday, did you know? I could not find her. She came to me in the late afternoon and refused to tell me anything… Said she was _at the market_, but I was there all the day!"

"I don't want you to hate me more than you already do, Malik. I have taken everything from you."

Fleetingly rendered speechless by Altair's frank sincerity, Malik took some time to formulate a response. "I hate you for having caused Kadar's death, Altair. I hate you also for your incompetency that resulted in the loss of my arm. Yes, because of these things I hate you. _I will never forgive you_. But I don't hate you for loving her. Not anymore. To blame you for loving her is to blame the sun for setting every evening. It cannot be helped, I am afraid, and ultimately it is her choice…"

_"Her choice?"_ Altair snarled at him, his tone having changed completely in a matter of seconds. "At what point did you give her a choice in all of this?"

The Dai went on the defensive. "She came to me, Altair! _She_ came to _me_ wearing nothing but the sky, and what was I to do? What was any man to do? _You_ would have done the same thing."

"Do not tell me what I would have done, Malik. You do not know-" All of a sudden his voice dropped to a low murmur, as if embarrassed that he had been so loud in the first place. "I do not want to take any more from you is all."

"Take _what,_ Altair? You will not be able to take her from me."

"Her virginity is not the same as her faithfulness," said Altair.

Aasha noticed she had stopped breathing, and had to make an effort to return to a normal breathing pattern. The change in rhythm made both men fall silent. Aasha turned on her side and nuzzled the thin blanket, hoping it would be enough to persuade them that she was still sleeping. She was relieved when Malik spoke again,

"You assume then that she will have faith in _you?"_

"I assume nothing, Malik. Faith is transient…. It's ever shifting. We cannot presume to know how this will end."

"But you are implying that she will not return to me after all is said and done."

"It… _it is a possibility_."

"Then why did you even come to tell me this, Altair? Why not just kidnap her and throw her on your horse?"

"Because I have honour!"

Malik snorted, "Pah! _Honour!_ Says the man who left his companions to die at the hands of the enemy! Come pick up the maps I've made for you…"

Their voices were then muffled again. The flap had fallen. They were walking back to the Bureau now, footsteps becoming more and more distant.

Aasha rose from her cot and was still for a long time. Sunlight streamed in from the window, the smell of incense wafting in from the workroom lifting her spirits. Surrounded in the familiar sight of her earthly possessions, Aasha should feel conflicted. But instead she felt liberated.

_She remembered the story now. _

The devil Iblis wished to test Job's faith in God by destroying his life… Iblis sent thieves to kill Job's servants and steal his cattle. Fire rained down from the heavens and burned his crops to the ground. Wind burst forth from the corners of the earth and smote his home, crushing his children to death. Job's own health deteriorated and his body fell apart in illness. Blistering boils grew of his skin, which ran with pus when Job punctured them with broken pottery. Yet despite the torture, Job would not renounce God. And so Iblis left in a fury, and God restored all that Job had lost: his family, his health, and his wealth.

Aasha felt true hope for the first time in a long time.

* * *

A long time ago, to become a Master Assassin was all Malik had ever wanted. Not so long ago, with the rank being torn from his reach forever, Malik turned his attention to becoming the best Dai the Order had ever seen. Then with his pain and disability disrupting his work, Malik became obsessed with becoming the best possible man and husband and companion for Aasha.

Presently, Malik understood that he'd failed tragically at all of these things. He had come to terms (more or less) with Kadar's death. It was Allah's will that Kadar should die, and so Malik placed his trust in His judgment. It was Allah's will that Malik should lose his left arm and become a Rafiq. If he'd lost his right arm, he would be completely useless to the Order, after all… and becoming a Dai had brought Aasha under his roof. But the Dai had difficulty coming to terms with how it was _also_ Allah's will that Altair should survive the encounter unscathed save for his pride. And now Allah was possibly taking Aasha away from him.

It was as if the whole world's story revolved around Altair's ups and downs, and this disgruntled Malik. If he were younger, he would be flushed mad and possibly would have punched Altair in the face from just the _thought_.

The Dai was halfheartedly etching a map when Aasha emerged from the hall leading to their rooms, and he dropped his work immediately. Altair was long gone now, but it felt as if his presence still lingered in the perfumed walls.

She said good morning, and wave of nausea rolled up Malik's throat. In a moment he was going to lose this. He was going to lose her. He was going to lose what semblance of a normal life he'd managed to build under these extenuating circumstances. The night before he'd asked her if she was happy, and she said no. She also asked him if he was happy, and what sort of man would Malik be if he'd said _yes?_ So he told her he wasn't either, though the truth was that he'd been plenty happy before he found out that she was not. Maybe he belonged with a dumber woman- not that he believed that women should not question the authority of men, but that he believed Aasha's thinking mind was harming her too much. The woman could think herself to death, spinning around and around in the cage of ethical paradox.

And it wasn't like he could just tell her to _stop thinking_, because the woman was educated and doors had been blown open now which were impossible to close.

"Is there something wrong?" she was asking him now, coming closer so that he could smell her fragrance. Malik had walked in on her bathing once or twice to see her crush lavender in her hands and rub them through her hair- if she noticed him, she never said anything. What else had she noticed?

"You're not wearing your hijab today," he blurted, then immediately regretted the words. Why did he have to ask her _that, _of all things?

"I'll wear it when I go out." She replied, not looking offended in the slightest, though Malik knew she was a very talented actor. Sometimes he really could not read her- and he was not used to that. She was more difficult than Altair! When Malik looked at Altair, at least he wasn't being distracted by his own body! He was even being distracted now as he took in her form, clad in a white robe richly embroidered at the collar, cuffs, and hem. Her hair reached beneath her shoulderblades again, and now hung at her back in long pleats. He could never get tired of looking at her, even knowing all her tiny flaws. He knew how she had a single dimple on her right cheek when she smiled a particular way. He hadn't been seeing it very much lately. He knew now that she had a small fleck of a mole on her inner pelvis, where her left thigh met her core. She had a birthmark also on her lower leftmost rib, and she giggled when he kissed it. Her ankles and feet don't quite match in the look of the bones, either. He remembered that she'd broken her left ankle and some of her toes on her right foot from falling out of the Templar Fortress on her infiltration mission. He was sure that one of her feet was just slightly smaller than the other, and was actually somewhat disturbed that he had spent so much time studying the size of her feet while she was sleeping.

But the point was that he was evermore intrigued by her; she was poetry in motion. So it made Malik want to tear his hair out when at night he laid upon his cot next to her, their arms or bodies pressed together, and realized that he'd barely said two or three sentences to her the entire day. _How was it possible?_ Was he just incompetent as a man? Surely she did not scare him, so why did he sweat and shiver through cold chills like he was on the verge of running from a threat?

Malik's arm swooped out and pulled Aasha to him so their chests and hips were flush against each other's, and he kissed her once on the forehead before delving towards her mouth. She returned his fervour, and he prayed that it wasn't out of obligation. He needed to be sure. "You don't need to kiss me back if you don't want to," he told her.

"I want to at this very moment," she said simply, and then sought out his parted lips with her own again.

"This was all I ever wanted…" Malik pressed his nose into the crook of her neck, nuzzling against the soft skin there, holding her as close as possible to him. "I know I've hurt you, _but I don't know how_. And now you're going to leave me and ride away with Altair…" He felt her stiffen in his one armed embrace.

"How did you know…?"

The hesitance in her voice was all acting. "I knew you were awake, Aasha. You don't have to pretend." He knew the pace of her breath when she slept: inhales to the count of five, exhales to the count of six. Her breathing was far too quick this morning when he and Altair spoke. He would not have taken the conversation there if Altair had not demanded to see that she was still in the Bureau. Perhaps this was a plot to make her overhear their conversation in the first place. Altair and Aasha were both expert manipulators, after all.

"Then you will let me go?"

Malik swallowed heavily. _No,_ his mind screamed. _No no no mine mine mine._ "It's not a question of letting you go, Aasha," he replied at last, watching subdued emotions flicker over her face. "I cannot keep you here, and you know this. Most women your age are bound by moral obligation, faith to Allah, but these borders do not apply to you."

"I have faith in Allah."

"Yes, but Allah is telling you many different things right now that he would not tell a usual woman. I cannot build a cage and throw you in it, after all." He'd entertained the idea for a little before casting it out- he was not this sort of man. He wanted Aasha to stay with him because she loved him, not because she was forced to. "I will never _let_ you go, but if you were to choose to go, then… then I would not pursue you."

This was maybe the worst mistake he would ever make in his entire life. But wasn't there some saying that if you loved someone, you should let them go… and if they don't come back… _well…_

"You know I am doing this for Nadia," she laid her head against his chest and listened to his heart beating. "I'm not doing this to get away from you, not really."

"I know," he said, and mouthed _I love you_ in silent words onto the crown of her head.

Some years ago he'd packed Aasha's things and rode her over to a Templar Fortress on horseback. He'd handed her over as a slave to the Templars, and regretted every moment of it. He suffered each day while she was gone, wondering if she was alright, if she was happy, if someone was hurting her. And above it all, the guilt and sense of helplessness was crushing. If she'd died, he might as well have murdered her with his own hands.

Today Malik was once again helping Aasha pack her things as she prepared to ride off with Altair for Acre. He was handing her over again to another man he really didn't trust very much, and he knew he would come to regret every moment of it. He would suffer each day while she was gone, wondering if she was alright, if she was happy, if someone _–Altair-_ was hurting her. And above it all, the guilt and sense of helplessness (especially as a one-armed Dai) would be crushing. If she died, he might as well have murdered her with his own hands. And if she fell in love with Altair, he might as well have given her away.

She could possibly die by doing this, but Malik didn't need to tell her what she could already deduce. He imagined her to be the kind of woman –no, kind of person- who would want to live a life of adventure and die free. While she darted around the rooms picking up things she might use on the journey and mission, Malik felt that she'd _come alive_. Maybe she was already dying in her own way by being kept in the Bureau. Ultimately, this was why Malik decided to entrust her to Altair. He would have difficulty adjusting to life without her, but then again life is always difficult.

Watching her flit about like a dervish, Malik received a startling epiphany.

There was no hope for him. This very situation was proof of it. He would never come to love or desire any other woman. Aasha was probably the only woman who could love him and all his scars. If she ended up loving Altair, which he felt was inevitable, then Malik would just _go on loving her_. The concept of jealousy and the feeling of being cheated is the anger at being betrayed, the frustration at being taken advantage of and losing time as a result. But Aasha would not be betraying him because she never promised anything to him in the first place… it was obvious that Malik was the weak link in their straining relationship. And if anyone was taking advantage of anyone, it was Malik who'd taken advantage of her in every which way possible. And finally, what was time to him if no amount of time could make him grow back an arm? What woman could love or even care for a one-armed man out of her own kindness?

"You are brave," Altair's voice drifted from the latticework panel roof. Malik looked up to see the bastard's fragmented face looming over him. Altair smiled just little, though Malik could not see it. "I would not be brave enough to do what you are about to do. Never in ten thousand years. You are the bravest man I have ever known, Malik Al-Sayf."

Scowling bitterly, the Dai escaped into the hallway to step out of Altair's view. He covered his face with his palm and groaned, "I am either the bravest man in the world, or the most stupid."

* * *

_End of Chapter 16._

* * *

I enjoyed reading all the wonderful feedback from last chapter! **Thank you very much. C: **

I wanted to give **Malik's perspective** in this chapter because I think though he argues with Altair, he has become subdued by his loss. Someone mentioned how he was so overcome by his own angst that he wasn't aware of the world around him, and this is so true. He really does love Aasha, and _he does not know why she would be hurt by his actions because he does not know any other way to treat a woman_. I hope you all can understand it and take it as what it is. I considered having him fight for her or manipulating her to stay with him... but I do believe that Malik (though he sometimes comes off as a bit of a douche in game) is a good man at heart. He's just very... _tired, _almost to the point of despondency. I felt that this was the best way to go, though you are more than welcome to share your opinions with me on the matter if you think otherwise.

I also took away the whole **'piece of Eden'** thing. It was too magical and the direction this story has taken doesn't really allow for it. I've replaced it for an artefact of the Holy Sephulchre (there is evidence that the Templars believed it was in Jerusalem somewhere). This would mean something very significant for both the Christians and the Muslims, (to discover the Holy Sephulchre is to have the blessing of God, etc) so I think this is a fitting swap. Another deviation from the game is the **relationship between some of the Templars**- what is shown of them in game is really not what occurred historically. E.g. I don't believe Richard would ever let Altair have at Robert as he did in Arsuf... but we'll see how that plays out.

Everything is coming together, so I hope the **"bird's eye"** view helped you all to get back on track as to what's happening where. I had fun writing Richard's dialogue! Fresh from the English Isles, a true F.O.B. in every sense haha.

**As always, if you've read please leave feedback or thoughts! C:**


	17. Image 624: Robert de Sable

To Robert's absolute fury, Richard was seriously contemplating electing Jacques de Sonnac as the regent of Acre following William of Montferrat's death.

"I implore you, my liege…" the Grand Master of the Templars trailed after his King like a wounded animal. Richard was strolling down the halls to the citadel's conference hall with kingly manner, looking every bit as formidable as his father was in his prime. They crossed the grand hall with his open fireplace, servants babbling against one another and sweeping the ashes from the last night's fire. Robert dropped his voice, "I implore you to reconsider."

"I grow ill of arguing with you, my friend," the King said simply, not even slowing in his steps. A servant rushed them to hand over some papers and a tactical map, which the King accepted with barely a nod of thanks. "Monsieur de Sonnac has much experience in the Holy Land- much more than you do, I must add. Must I remind you that you were not, until recently, a member of the Order?"

Robert flushed, lowering his voice so passing servants and knights would not hear how embarrassed he was, "My lord, it is because Gerard de Ridefort was dead, and there was not another man who could take his place."

"Draw me up a hot bath, will you?" Richard stopped a servant, who bowed immediately at the honour of receiving a direct order from the King. "It has been three months since my last bathing, and I am beginning to smell quite foul. Call for me when the bath is ready."

"Yes, my lord, right away, sir," the scullion blurted before bowing curtly again and running in the opposite direction from where he'd originally been going. With this, Richard turned his attention once more to his old friend and companion. "And so it was that William de Montferrat has been killed, and there is no better man to take his place." The King hesitated a moment, trying to decide if it would be more effective to be stern or to be amusing in this matter.

Sixteen paces until the King disappeared into his conference room to mill with regents and ambassadors and various leaders of the Christian force. Fourteen paces until the scoundrel Jacques de Sonnac is promoted to regent of Acre. Twelve paces later and if Robert could not change the King's mind, he will have lost. Ten paces. Robert has already lost.

"If you must complain," the King added playfully, "you might complain to your lady friend Mary." His veiled accusation caught Robert off guard, and he retorted hastily that Maria was not his lady friend.

It more than irked Robert to know that he had so much and yet _so little_ power over the men he were supposed to call his own. For years and years Robert had delved himself heart and mind into becoming Richard's most trusted confidant- and for what? To be offered the prestigious chair of leadership as the Grand Master of the Templars and yet be used and manipulated as a pawn? Despite his outward kindness, Richard was a very keen man and knew what strings to pull in order to guarantee the loyalty of his followers. And yet no matter how loyal or faithful or helpful Robert had been to him, Richard still held himself on the pedestal of King and leader. Even when he was but the Duke of Aquitaine, trying to stay on a horse's back, young Richard already held a stately air about him.

Knowing that he would never rise above Richard's jurisdiction, Robert began to… arrange a certain future for himself. So that when Richard was inevitably called back to England to tend to his kingdom in Europe, Robert would be in the perfect place at the perfect time to be declared ruling regent of Outremer. There was a lot of gold to be made, and a lot of fame to be had in this endeavour. One could think that overtaking a monarchy and manipulating its leader would be difficult. Then again, one would be wrong. It was simply a matter of winning over key delegates from the bottom rung, those who are eager to prove and make a name for themselves. Then one sought to remove those opposing or suspicious of him from power and influence through legal (or not quite legal if it came down to it) means. Bribe the church also, for Richard draws his credibility from his supposed divinity passed down from God, from the Pope in Rome. And before Richard knew it, Robert could be picking his advisors for him and carefully selecting which people to surround him with. These people, of course, would be Robert's followers. And then Richard would have no choice - not when all those around him agreed to a common consensus. Robert had both the charisma and the wealth to accomplish this monumental task; it would not be as difficult as one would think.

To some extent the King must know that he was ambitious- but certainly the man had no idea that Robert had already created a network of powerful followers under his very nose. The plan was already under way. Having bribed those of dark intention and deceived those of pure intention into joining his cause, Robert de Sable was poising himself to take over the Holy Land while the King focused his efforts into defeating Saladin.

Everything would be going according to plan if it weren't for the infidel assassins. Did they know of his scheme? It certainly seemed so. But how in the world would they know? Was he their next target? And now he was certain that Jacques de Sonnac was exerting a sort of influence on the King. How else could it be explained that Robert was scheduled at an appointment at the same time as the knight's own promotion? In his own study later that evening, Robert sought out his personal steward.

Tasked with scribing, the dark haired Englishwoman was focused on her work, finely printing with a controlled frenzy that Robert had only ever seen once or twice in his life. It was why he had to have her by his side always- such a woman was not easy to find.

"Send for Jacques de Sonnac," he waved to her, when she at last paused from her writing. "I wish to congratulate him on his assignment." He would have the man know that Robert was not one to be meddled with.

"Of course," she nodded to acknowledge his order, and then delved right back into scribing.

_"Now."_ Robert clapped his hands together. "_Immediately,_ Maria!"

* * *

They rode out into the sands wrapped in kuffiyah to shield against the wind and dust. With Malik's (reluctant) blessings of safety and peace, the two of them felt they had the world in their hands. There was, of course, still the question of _what to do after all this was over_, but that was a question for later. For now, Aasha and Altair simply enjoyed each other's company.

"You've changed," she said to the Eagle, rubbing Maymun's mane and praying that the slight limp she felt from his gait was just due to the instability of the sand. The horse made up for his loss in speed with his enthusiasm, however. Still, she felt it was not long before he would have to rest. Altair's steed, on the other hand, was a young and feisty chestnut mare who regarded the older stallion with apprehension.

"So have you," Altair's reply was muffled by the cloth covering his face. "It has been months. Change is inevitable."

But looking out into the desert outskirts at the borders of Jerusalem, Aasha could argue that some things remained the same always. The sounds of the city faded away behind them under the wind's distant howling, each drag of their horse's hooves leading them away from what was known and into what could not be understood. Aasha was comforted by the harsh reality of the desert, the constant drought and heat and wind and cruelty peppered with temporary bouts of respite. It was a truce in the war between the desert and its inhabitants when Allah sent rain.

In the distance, a number of vultures circled in the sky, growing restless. When they approached where the vultures were circling, Altair was surprised to observe that there was no carcass here for them to pick on. "Something must be buried here," he rationalized, nodding in support of his own analysis. "Perhaps a dead man."

Aasha studied the look of the soil beneath them and shook her head at his deduction. "Perhaps it is about to rain."

The assassin stilled his steed and looked hard at her. "How do you reckon? It's long past the season for rains, Aasha."

"Look," she pointed to the disturbed sand at their horses' hooves. "You can tell that tunnels were dug here not long ago. And see the patterns, the ruffling in the sand. A number of snakes moved along the sand here recently, and they burrowed themselves into the sand right here to sleep the winter away."

Her companion followed her gaze and reasoned that it was possible, though he'd never heard of such a thing. To be honest, Altair never questioned where the snakes and scorpions and little pests of the desert went during the winter. He actually just assumed for some time that they just _died_. "Alright, so how do you suppose that it's about to rain?" These were not questions to pass the time- rain could derail their journey completely. Neither of them was much prepared for any rain, especially not at this time of year. Any rain now could be devastating to their health, supplies, and weapons. Rusted blades were never a good thing.

"The rain seeps through the sand and fills their tunnels where they are sleeping, forcing them out. They are confused and some are weak. Most are angry, and will bite anything. I'm supposing that these vultures are here to pick up the weak and feast on any passing animal that is bitten and falls." She smelled the air through her cloth cover, and it did not smell or taste any different. Regardless, the vultures had sensed something that was elusive to them. Her heart dropped at the implication. "Do we turn back?" She asked Altair, "it may or may not rain, and we are not prepared."

Altair looked towards the sky, at the restless vultures, and then met Aasha's expectant gaze. "There is little time. The Templars are mobilizing, and Garnier de Naplouse is likely being relocated as we speak. They might leave Acre altogether, and then who will know where they are?" His intention was clear: that they make leave for Acre immediately. He did not completely buy into Aasha's little deduction, having never seen rain so late in harvesting.

"Fine," she sighed, pushing her own reservations away.

They rode on for an hour at least in more or less complete silence. Maymun's trot became less and less stable until eventually he stopped dead in his tracks and hung his head in exhaustion.

"Aasha," Altair warned her, "I told you-"

"Uuuushhhhh," the former spy whispered in Maymun's ear, dismounting and squatting in the sand to check his hooves.

"Aasha," the assassin's voice grew forceful. The sky was greying, and they were too far out to turn back. The nearest settlement was something like half a day away. "Leave him."

"Leave him?" she cried in disbelief, her mouth agape. Even Maymun caught onto Altair's hostility, and recoiled further into himself. "Altair, I cannot just…" There was nothing stuck in his hooves. Maymun was simply too fatigued. He was too old. Altair's mare flicked her tail obnoxiously, snorting in impatience. "No…"

"He's ill, he's dying of old age. Just leave him be and ride with me!" Altair hated to be still in the middle of the desert- always he had to be moving. One could never tell if they were being watched here among the shifting dunes.

"Stop telling me what to do!" She burst out, hugging Maymun's neck to her breast. His breaths were strained, and his joints buckled under him. Despite herself, the tears welled up in her eyes. She could not just leave Maymun here to die. He'd been with her since her apprenticeship- she rode out with Altair on their first mission on his back. To lose Maymun here would be a terrible loss.

Altair fell silent. Over the past months he'd learned to trust his intuition over his logic at times. The scene of grief before him was not something to be rushed or taken lightly. Long ago he'd learned to take his emotions by the reins and let rationale have control, but now he had to accept that rationale and logic could be cruelly biased at times, or self-contradicting. Losing Kadar and Malik was proof that calculated logic did not always prevail. He should have trusted his instincts in Solomon's Temple when they screamed at him to _be still_.

Some moments later the sky cleared again. Altair breathed a sigh of relief. Looking out over the horizon, he struggled to locate the desert settlement he knew was somewhere in this vicinity. There would be shelter there to rest for the night. When he looked back, Aasha was transferring her one saddlebag off of Maymun's crumpled form and tying it onto Altair's saddle. It had not been heavy to begin with; only a few items of clothing, some coins, a dagger, and food supplies. She did not turn around, just motioned for Altair to scoot forward. When he did, she pulled herself onto his horse so that her chest pressed against his back, and rested her forehead on his shoulder.

They stayed like that for a while as horse and man and woman rested and ate in companionable silence. Then the vultures came, and they were forced to move forward.

Still so strong under Aasha's added weight, Altair's mare trotted on steadily. The assassin dug his heels into the stirrups just slightly, encouraging the beast to move faster. He did not seem rushed but for the tenseness in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders, and for his silence.

"I'm sorry that we lost time," Aasha saw it fit to apologize, "but Maymun was very dear to me."

"I understand completely," said Altair, and she wished she were able to see and study his face and acknowledge his honesty. "You gave him a name and you cared for him as a friend. Thus it is only just to mourn him as one." It was why he never gave a name to any of his horses. Never. Not when she first asked, not now.

"Altair?" She did not like it when he held his tongue. It gave her the sense that something was wrong, that she was in the center of the issue.

"Hm?"

"Do you think me a bad sort of woman?"

If it was possible to feel Altair's blood rush to his just from holding onto his waist, Aasha would have sworn she could tell the exact moment. "A bad sort of woman?"

"I don't obey authority," she began to list all the qualities of herself that both confounded and troubled her all this time, "I don't find happiness in the domestic life, and I seem to have no loyalty towards anyone. Not even myself."

She was taking a risk by revealing her innermost thoughts to Altair, but at the same time she felt there was a strange balance between them. What she had become was despicable, but so was what Altair had become. The two of them juggled their demons with one another and held each other in equal guilt. Altair had no place to judge her, just as she had no right to pass judgement on him.

She was guilty of many things: of abandoning her blood, of failing Nadia, of leaving Malik, and by running constantly from everything and anything that tried to root her to the ground – somewhere, _anywhere_.

Like a seed being carried on the wind, she had to take root somewhere. Sometime. She could not fly forever.

"I think you are a woman of fire and sand," came Altair's slow and calculated response. "Your education and capacity for thought… it… it makes you question anything and everything. I have never known a woman who so tortures herself with thought. Your past makes you wary of men and their intentions. It is understandable, I think. Of course I have never been wronged by a woman so I do not much relate."

He felt her shake her head, the tip of her nose pressing into the belt of knives at his back. "You're wrong," she corrected him, "well- you're mostly right. Maybe I am cautious about men and their intentions, but to say that you cannot relate would be wrong. You are also afraid that you will never find a woman who will stay in your life."

A barked laugh.

"No, Altair," she insisted, "I speak what I see. You never knew your mother. She passed away soon after your birth. There was no woman in your life who has ever remained a constant, and so you never thought to desire one, to love one, or to want one by your side. Isn't that right, Altair?"

Stunned, Altair's entire body went lax. The undulating sand dunes fading from sight with the sun's descent looked at once menacing to the eye. The stars came forth to guide their path, and suddenly Altair felt very small. He'd never thought of his mother like so.

Even as a child, he had always been unsure of how to act around girls his age. While Malik tried his hand at flirting and Kadar meandered along his brother's footsteps, Altair would rather find comfort in the harsh point of a flying knife. He never knew how to speak to Aasha, to Nadia, to the pretty courtesan named Karin with whom Altair was meant to go on his first mission with. He had been too shy, and ordered Kadar to deliver the message. Miscommunication landed young Aasha on his horse, and so everything changed.

As a man, he could never be persuaded to visit Masyaf's concubines. While Malik regarded him as a cold and possibly _inhuman monster_ of a man, Altair simply felt no need to seek gratification from the female body. He did not complain when he noticed the first signs of developing romance between Aasha and Malik, thinking it a logical development over time. He felt she owed him nothing, and so what was there to be angry about? But he had been angry, too. He'd fought with Malik meaninglessly over pointless things- all because he did not know why he was angry. Eventually he would stop being angry, his mind reasoned.

He let Malik take Aasha away. He delivered her to him, half tempting her to take off and half hoping she wouldn't actually decide to. Because what would that make her? What would that make the two of them? Never had he attributed his insecurities on his mother, who he never even knew. It made sense now that Aasha had brought it to his attention. She was wrong in some ways, but her insight was solid.

Just as her sister's rape made her reluctant to relinquish control, the absence of Altair's mother in his life made him tentative to reach out and keep a hold on any feminine figure. Aasha's life was turned upside down as a child, and she learned to adapt and survive in any situation even if it was to her detriment. Altair had only known loss when it came to those around him, and hence did not place company as a priority.

Like this, he came to the inevitable realization that their past would consume them both.

"Altair, you've stopped."

The Eagle blinked his bright eyes. So he had. Though he was aware that time was slipping away, he dismounted nonetheless fluidly and motioned for Aasha to do the same. Confused, she manoeuvred herself free from his saddle and toppled gracelessly onto the sand. She was smiling. "What is this for?"

"Night is coming." The assassin motioned towards the wide expanse of sky and earth, divided by a bright ribbon of fire over the furthest dunes in the horizon. The sun was taking his last breath. "Is it not beautiful?"

Incredulous, she burst out laughing. "Did you hear anything I just said, Altair? Or has it passed over your head like so much wind?"

Speaking of wind, the coiling gusts had died with the sun. The air was now still and waiting. Altair revealed his face and pulled down his hood, delighting in the fresh open sky. "I heard you," he smiled, "and I was thinking."

She crossed her arms against her chest, shivering a bit as night chill seeped into her bones and made itself a home there. "Small steps, Altair. Don't hurt yourself thinking." The desert girl looked about her and felt at ease. "Should we set up camp?"

When her attention circled back to the white robed assassin, the man was holding what looked to be a long stick. _Where had he found that?_ With a sheepish glint in his eyes, he was waving playfully to her. "Come," he said, "I have a sudden urge to do something." Seeing her hesitation mixed with just a touch of intrigue, he added on, "leave the horse, leave the supplies, leave _everything_. Just come here, please."

And what could she have done? She followed.

* * *

Robert de Sable raised a glass to Jacques de Sonnac in a toast, but the blond knight politely refused. Staggered, the Grand Master had to search for words. "I merely wished to offer you felicitations," he explained, motioning all the while for Jacques to sit down. It was as if the knight was trying his utmost to make this the most awkward conversation Robert had ever had.

"Felicitations for what, my liege?"

"For becoming regent of Acre, of course!" Robert could barely contain his false excitement. He considered himself a very good actor. "I would never have imagined that any man could rise so fast."

At last the darned knight took his seat at a leatherbound chair, though he would not release his fist which rested on the chair's arm. Robert noted this. "Relax, good man," he told Jacques, "in my company there is no need for formality, my friend!"

"Of course." The fist loosened at once. "My Lord, I feel that you have been misled. I did not accept the position of regent."

Robert was just taking a sip of his wine, and nearly spat it back out at the words. But that would be unseemly to be certain, so the man held his breath until he felt more calm. "And why, my friend, would you reject such an offer?" _What are you up to?_

"I simply cannot be tied to Acre at this time," said Jacques, "I wish to fight along our good King and bring death to the infidel Saracens." The words were heated, but the delivery was not. Jacques spoke like a dead thing.

"Really?" Robert leaned forward.

"Truly, my Lord."

"I was quite concerned that you'd grown too close to the good-for-nothing infidel dogs," Robert probed deeper, "and what's more interesting is that…" he leaned back, scratching his chin in a mockery of contemplation. The truth was that he had this conversation all planned out since they left for Acre. He enjoyed watching the other knight fight to keep his composure. "I always felt that you were a man in search of something, Jacques… What is it? What drives you towards greatness? I have noticed it and am curious. So, is it God? Or coin?"

"I am a knight of the Temple," the fair haired man stated in a matter-of-fact manner. "I do not care for material wealth, and I always strive to be closer to God. _It is who we are, my Liege_." The pointed insult was acute. Robert recoiled just slightly. He had never come completely to terms with the fact that he was never a true member of the Temple. When de Ridefort was reported missing yet again, the Governing Council of the Templars had appointed him to become the next Grand Master. In all consideration, Jacques de Sonnac was a more experienced and loyal member of the Templar Order than he.

"Then is it a lady friend?" Robert swirled his goblet, watching the wine inside spin endlessly. "Maybe you have loved and lost?"

Jacques was silent for a long, long time. "Why would you ask this of me, my Lord? You know that we are not permitted…"

"We are not permitted of many things," Robert cut in, serious once again. "But it does not mean we do not want."

From the corner of his eye, Jacques saw movement in the adjoining room. "You have a woman living in your quarters, my liege?" No amount of coverage could veil the betrayed shock in his tone.

The other man rolled his eyes, slipping into their mother tongue for a moment, "elle s'appelle Maria," he informed without reservation. "She is my companion and personal steward."

Jacques' mouth turned. "That is disgusting," he hissed, "how dare you!" He rose from his seat so violently that the chair toppled back. "The King will hear of this treachery."

"And what will he do?" Robert stood as well, opening his arms so that he appeared bigger and more impressive than he already was. "The King knows she is here, _good man_, and I am his dearest friend in all of Outremer. Do you think he will push me from his court, Jacques?"

Already on his way to the doors, Jacques was practically tripping over himself to get out. Just before he reached the double doors that separated Robert's extravagant quarters from the rest of the Citadel, a black haired woman appeared suddenly and blocked the doorway. Dressed in men's clothes, Jacques nearly pushed her aside before he noticed the slimness around her waist.

"Won't you sit down, sir?" her voice sounded like bells. Not like the delicate ringing of bells on a dancer's bodice, but like the sound of church bells tolling the morning light.

Robert took him by the arm and guided him back to his seat by the crackling fireplace, a gesture of friendliness underlined by such a cruel grip. "So, now that you know my secret, why not tell me yours? What mysterious force are you chasing, Jacques?"

"What do you want of me?" the knight demanded, looking to Maria and to Robert, standing side by side in front of him. Looming over him like two towers. "I have nothing to offer either of you. I don't understand-"

"You're sharp man," Robert stalked round Jacques in a cat-like manner, a predator circling his prey. A _vulture_, so to say. "And I simply want to be certain that we are on the same side of the war, my friend. See, I'm fairly convinced that I have an assassin on my trail." He paused to review Jacques' reaction. Nothing. "I seem to remember that you were involved in a little… scuffle with several of these jackals some years ago, do you remember?"

"Of course I do," he spat, "how could I forget? And what are you implying of me, Robert?" Jacques knew that he appeared more than incriminating. Knowing the Saracen language as well as he did, with as many contacts as he did, it would not take a mastermind to connect the dots where no dots existed to begin with. "I am no traitor."

Robert feigned surprise. "I never said you were! Nonetheless, I feel you underestimate my capacity to deduce, Jacques. You threaten to accuse me of treason, but you forget that I have more incriminating evidence on your part." Rejoicing at the knight's incessant trembling –of fear? Of anger?- Robert continued, "if I were to… say… accuse you of sodomy!"

"Blasphemy!" Jacques argued, "you cannot prove that."

"I know more than you think, Jacques. Regardless, one word from me and you will find yourself dealing with me, the Grand Master of the Templar Order, and judged by the Count of Poitou and Anjou, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Lord of Brittany, Maine, and Gascony, and above all that the King of England." Robert took a breath, having recited all of Richard's titles. Jacques was still, understanding now that the situation was no longer a discussion, but simply of blackmail. He could not win this. "So," said the Grand Master, "I am proposing a deal…" Leaning back and rubbing his calloused palms together in excitement, Robert was the spitting image of a child in a sweet shop. "I would love to know more about this assassin on my tail, and I have an understanding that you have an inkling or so of knowledge about him. I would love, for example, to put a name to his face and send him back to hell where he belongs. And you, Jacques, will help me put him there. I understand you want to avenge your… _fellow knights_… who fell before you at the hands of this assassin as well, so the plan works to our mutual advantage!"

Jacques rolled the idea around in his mouth before spitting it back out. "I have no desire to save your bottom from what you have coming to you, Robert. What could you _possibly_ offer _me_?"

Smiling sickly sweet, Robert motioned for Maria to fetch a scrap of paper. He crouched and slung his arm around Jacques' shoulders, whispering closely into his ear…

"I happen to know of a certain Saracen _prisoner_… he moans and groans all the day and cries for you, calls you his-"

"Altair is already dead," Jacques blurted without thinking, his entire body buzzing with the news, "where is the prisoner you speak of?"

"So his name is Altair," Robert mused, "Maria, write this down, won't you?" The young woman nodded curtly and pulled a quill from Robert's desk. Slowly, the Grand Master's gaze turned back to the younger knight, who looked truly frightened for the first time. "How do you know he is dead, Jacques?"

"I sent the Bedu men after him," the words came without filter. The news of Imad had broken all the dams Jacques had so carefully constructed. It no longer mattered to him that he'd just revealed himself to be a sodomite, having committed the ultimate treason against God and King. What mattered now was _Imad_. "Where is the prisoner?"

"The Bedu men we came by on our way to Acre?"

"Yes. _Where is the prisoner_, Robert?" Jacques was certain that the brothers could find Altair while he traveled the desert to Acre, but whether the assassin was dead or not was unknown to him.

"Oh, I did not know that…" the other man looked to Maria and shrugged wistfully. "I ordered to have them slaughtered, the two of them and all their bastard clan."

Jacques could have screamed, but all that came out was a slight whimper. "You-"

"If I had known," Robert murmured, looking not the least bit apologetic, "I would have let them be. It is too late now, the message is on the winds." He put both hands on the armrest on Jacques' chair, effectively fencing the man in between his arms. Trapped, he had nowhere to run or turn. Robert's victorious smirk stank like the dead. "With a single word, I can order the death of anyone under the King's jurisdiction. I think you were wrong to refuse the position of regent… now you'll have to play along if you want your _prisoner friend_ freed, hmm?"

* * *

With his stick, Altair found a smooth patch of sand by evening light and began to make marks in the ground. He was scribing his name into the sand.

"Now you." He passed the stick to Aasha when he was done, his name proudly situated in the canvas of sand. "Write your name next to mine."

Turning her lip at the strangeness of the request, Aasha fought to remember how to write her name. She'd forgotten. The thought sent a bolt of panic through her skull. How had she forgotten how to write her name? She scribed entire transcripts as a young woman at Masyaf. The Qur'an and the hadiths, the work of the great poets… Even now she saw the calligraphic characters swarming and crawling in the insides of her eyelids. But where she fought to remember her name, her mind drew a blank dot.

"What's wrong?" Altair's smile dropped.

"I've… forgotten how to write my name." She was very upset by this. There was something magical about the written word. What had she done to deserve forgetting her own name? When the woman still did not move, Altair took her hand and spread her fingers, placing the end of the stick in her palm and closing her fist over it. "I will show you."

Moving so that he pressed behind her, he wrapped himself and her so he could control her hand that held the stick. "Do you remember now?" He was careful to watch her reaction so as not to offend her, but so far she seemed focused on the sandy canvas in front of her. Altair would never know that her heart was practically leaping out of her chest and out her throat. Slowly and carefully, Altair moved her hand and scribed the characters of her name out onto the sand under his.

_Aasha. _

"Oh." She said. It was different from what she remembered. Instinctively, she went on to scribe below that,

_Rani. _

It was a heady feeling, to see herself marked in the sand, if only fleetingly. Altair praised her writing, and chuckled nervously. His chest shook against her back as he did this. "I'm not quite certain why I felt so compelled to write my name in the sand, or why it felt right to write your name next to mine. It's a little childish, I think." Like young apprentices in love, carving their names into trees. At least_ that_ was a little more permanent.

"It must be the desert," said Aasha, turning herself so she looked Altair in the face. She pulled off her kuffiyah and scarf so that there was nothing between them. "The desert always has a sort of poetic effect on people."

Pressing ever closer, the assassin's hand emerged to card itself through her hair, languidly untangling some of the strands that knotted together. "Why do you think that is?" In the back of his mind, Altair's conscience was screaming at him. This woman made the choice to give herself to Malik. What was he doing, then, touching her like this? But the other part, the larger part of him, disagreed. The body was temporary- the soul was something different altogether. And if Aasha saw it fit to offer Altair a piece of her soul, he would gladly take it.

Aasha, on the other hand, had to push aside her own reservations about what anything _meant_ and simply enjoy the warmth of Altair's body pressed against hers. _Stop thinking_, she forced herself. _Thinking makes people unhappy_. She didn't want to have to question his motives or question her own morality. Her instincts drew her to him as a man on fire searched for water. "It's big, vast, eternal. It's much bigger than you or I, and this casts a sort of spell on people. Those who wander the desert feel an overwhelming urge to write." Her mind wandered to Malik, and the urgency with which he scribed, and she knew her analysis was sound. "We are all afraid of living and dying in obscurity, so when we witness something like this… something like the desert, a battlefield, the ocean, perhaps rain... We cannot help but grab at something close to us and write our names on the closet possible surface."

As she spoke, a soft breath of wind erased their names from the desert's face, as if admonishing them for vandalism. "Bismillah," she whispered half reverently, half begrudgingly.

"You make me a philosopher, Altair." _You make me feel like it's alright to think on these things_. All these things that she always kept to herself, she felt safe to speak them with Altair.

"Your insights are fascinating, but not all are correct."

"No?" A spark of diffidence flickered under the dark of her eyes, light as gossamer. It was a reminder that she was still human, with fears of living and dying in obscurity just as he did. There was some odd urge overtaking him now, the same urge that made him drop his plans and reach for a stick to write his name in the sand. A primal instinct tempered by his newfound humility, day breaking through the night.

"You said that I never thought to desire a woman, to love one, or to want one by my side. You are wrong." With that, he swooped down and up and pressed his lips to hers. His stomach did a strange thing- it flipped like he was dropping off the highest viewtower in a leap of faith. He'd never kissed anyone like this before, but he'd seen others do it often enough. But then again, he never minded taking a risk. Not then, not now: Altair never minded falling. He'd fallen out of trees, fallen out of carts, he'd fallen off of cots and fallen in other's opinion, too. The best way to fall, he felt, was to fall in love.

And when he felt her arms coming to wrap around his neck, pulling them both down, down into the sand, he closed his eyes and imagined that she was not dragging him down, but lifting him up- soaring higher and higher, so they could fall in love together. From above, God laughed and clapped His hands.

A deep, rolling thunder was upon them, followed by the distant sound of pattering rain. Aasha rolled Altair's hood up and over his head, her palms lingering at his face. "It is an omen," she warned, at the same time that Altair released his hold on her and said "it is a blessing."

* * *

In the desert, rain was always celebrated. The people would come out to dance, their bodies strung with flowers and powdered with precious spices. To thank Allah with dance and voice and song.

They saw the trails in the sand before they saw the smoke. They noticed the smoke before they noticed the smell. They took in the scent of charred leather before they heard the screams. Oh the anguished screams.

It was not uncommon that the crusaders should destroy entire Bedouin clans- to them, the gypsies who dwelled in the desert were less than scum. At least the infidels of Islam held similar values and morals to them, whereas the Dom were nothing but thieves. The murder of these people who lived in goatskin tents largely went unheeded by the city dwellers, but to watch it before one's eyes changed a thing or two. Aasha was not unfamiliar to suffering and knew they would be outnumbered should they interfere, yet still the urge to dash into the conflict pulled at her limbs.

"That could be my family."

It could very well be. Altair pursed his lips. "I will not leave innocent women and children to die," he said, and felt her hands grip at his waist. Altair's horse was reeling from the smell of blood and burnt flesh, agitated by the sounds of fighting. The implication was clear. "These are not Templar knights. I will try my luck."

"I'm coming with you," Aasha was stern, "I'm not going to wait here while you fight off the Franj."

"I'm not going to ride a horse with a young woman on it into battle," Altair growled, craning his head so he would catch a slant of her face. "I'm not going to lose you here, Aasha."

"No!"

Aggravated, Altair blinked the raindrop from his eyes and tried to keep his head from boiling over. The shouts were growing louder. The scene was a minute's gallop away. He could see the domed caps of the crusaders now, their raised swords. The metallic glint of their armour made them visible- the rest of them were fog. The rain was lifting up the lightest of sands and making his eyes blur. As if the visibility was any good to begin with. "You would only get in my way." He hadn't meant to be so blunt, but at least the statement had some effect.

After a moment, she let go of her grip on his frame.

"Fine." Aasha slipped from the horse's back, the sound of her boots creating a squelching sound when they met with the wet sand. She stood there now with her hair plastered to her face. "Go." The whites of her eyes were lined with pink, but Altair had no time to stay and see if some unbroken line had just been crossed. He could not risk having her torn from him by a Crusader's blade. Better that she be safe than he be sorry again.

He went.

She watched him go with the chill seeping into her limbs. A bead of water slipped from the tip of her nose. Aasha might have lived a domestic life for the past moons, but she was _not_ going to just stand here. He said she would get in his way. Stupidly, pushed by the rushing blood behind her throat, she wanted to prove him wrong. She watched him ride away until she couldn't see him anymore, and then she reached for her dagger.

* * *

End of Chapter 17.

* * *

I wanted Aasha and Altair to come to terms (of sorts) with their **pasts** and how it affected them as people. I always felt strongly that not having a mother had an influence on Altair, especially with his romance with Maria in the game. Leaps and bounds with Altair and Aasha in this chapter. Oh my. I hadn't meant for some of the things to happen to _actually happen so soon_, but the characters had different ideas. Oh the angst of being a writer.

Anyways, as a side note,** Robert de Sable** was not actually a "Templar" in the historical sense before he was given the title of Grand Master to replace de Ridefort. Though there is much evidence that he observed the rules of the Templars, I feel strongly that he did have his own proclivities that Richard would have tolerated (such as Maria). Neither man were so strongly observant of God, in my opinion.

Thanks for reading. **As always, please leave some feedback or thoughts by reviewing. I would love to hear from you all! C:**


	18. Image 687: Acre

When Altair arrived, the mounted men were already fleeing, pursuers on their back, spurring their horses away from the site of destruction. These men, with crested shields and plumed helms, were easily recognizable as knights. They left behind charred ground and bloodied bodies strewn over the sand. The smell was acrid, almost unbearable, but the rain dropped over the earth and pinned the dust and smoke down to the ground. A strangled cry caught Altair's attention, and he quickly jumped off his horse to pry open the burned flaps of a goatskin tent where the cry came from. The entire structure was fired to a crisp, and the tent came apart in his hands. Inside, a young boy was curled in on himself, shaking and crying. Slowly, women and children crawled out of their hiding places and took stock of what had happened. Their husbands and all the men were gone. Some were cut down, others took to the chase, and some were killed by fire.

None of them paid Altair much mind, all scrambling to find their loved ones and gather what belongings could be salvaged. It was total chaos, and yet the Bedu moved with a sense of calm as well, like they were used to sudden and utter reorganization of their lives. The rain put out the last spark of flame, and Altair wondered why the crusaders had not chosen to drunk their torches in oil or fat so the fire could burn on in the rain. Perhaps it was a conscious decision.

Altair came to Omar's body, rolled onto his side. The assassin stared at the sad sight of the dead old man until he had to blink the rain from his eyes. The sun was going down, and the chill was spreading. It was not safe to be out in the open desert at night, in the rain, with no protection. He searched for Mudhil and Amin amidst the scurry, and realized they must have been the chase party. So they were lost.

As if something had been overturned, suddenly the clan was acutely aware of the outsider in their midst. "It is Altair!" Someone cried, "the traitor! He sent the infidels on our tail!"

Never having had to run for his life in this company, Altair was now faced with the ugly accusation that he was responsible for what had happened here. Having vowed to never harm innocents, he could not even defend himself. His honour stopped him from running, flashes of the fragmented light falling through the cracks between the bricks of Solomon's Temple coming to mind. He raised both hands, palms facing out, and backed away. "You are mistaken…"

A shout turned his attention, and- there! There was his horse again, with Aasha on her back. The gypsies scurried aside to avoid being trampled by the beast, and they were not fast enough to stop Altair from heaving himself onto the horse's saddle behind Aasha. They'd never even seen a man move like that! In the blink of an eye, Altair was making his escape. "Stop, in the name of Allah!" They were crying, many of them running after him. "Give us back our brothers Mudhil and Amin! You traitor! Bastard!"

Aasha did not turn back, just spurred on the horse even more. As the rain made the ground unbalanced like quicksand, the horse's rapid galloping sucked muddy craters in the sand. The beast was heaving under the strain of running on waterlogged sand, and so after some while when the sounds of the camp died away, Aasha loosened her hold on the reins and allowed the horse to slow. Altair, who could not find a place to rest his hands without being immodest, was balancing precariously on the saddle behind her. "We should switch," Aasha suggested with no spirit left in her voice. Altair was worried not only by the implications of what had just occurred at the Bedu encampment, but also of what Aasha had managed to overhear. "Yes," he agreed. They pulled the exhausted mare to a halt and dismounted one after the other. Altair took the horse's reins and Aasha climbed up behind him, and circled her arms around his waist for balance.

"There is a town ahead," she said, and because she was pressing her face into his back, her voice came out muffled. "Half a mile to the east, under that waadi."

"I don't see a waadi," countered Altair, disoriented.

"It is there."

"Ah."

Altair did not question further, did not ask for a map; did not ask for elaboration. He just turned his horse towards the east and pressed on.

* * *

Because of the rain, there was now a total of eight damned novices lounging themselves around the Bureau. They hung their rain soaked tunics up to dry, stomped across his workroom, spilled his ink and marred his maps. Malik could not get at them quickly enough. Oh, if he could get a hand on them they would be yowling in pain and begging for mercy before morning light. But as it were, the novices brought in platters of food and snacks from who knew where and made an absolute mess. Not only that, but their chattering was incessant, sometimes interspersed with piercing laughter that gave Malik the worst of headaches.

"Quiet!" He yelled at them for the hundredth time that night. "Yeh Allah! What terrible excuses for novices you are."

"Lighten up, Dai!" One of them had the gull to shout back from the other room. "Allah has blessed us with rain, so let us celebrate!" And to that, the other boys cheered. Malik imagined them lifting their cups and downing their drink like gluttons. He sneered, trying to block out their din while he worked on his project. It did not take long before the smooth gliding of his reed pen brought him to a state of tenuous calm. It used to take him days to produce a quality map. Now it took him merely hours. His wrist understood intimately the curves and innards of various city locations, of the city itself, and even of lands far from Jerusalem. Some places he'd visited personally, and others he learned from studying the maps of others.

As he said before so many times, Malik absolutely hated cartography. He was determined not to become a cartographer, to become anything but a cartographer. Before Aasha's arrival, he tried to think of some hobby or pastime he could develop that could aid the Order. Nothing he thought of could be feasibly accomplished with one hand…

And then the old Jerusalem Dai came to his door, with his long beard nearly as white as his robe, and asked one more time- "would you like me to teach you how to draw maps?"

The old Dai visited every day, as though he missed his old workplace and home. He had a new home now of course, and lived on generous stipends from Masyaf. Malik understood that he probably had nothing better to do than to visit the young new Dai and try to impart some of his knowledge before he died. Twenty one times Malik refused him before, but on that day he said yes.

* * *

_Immediately the Dai threw himself into the Bureau like he owned the place and went about inspecting everything there was to be seen. "Bah!" He even slapped Malik on his hand –his one remaining hand- and launched into a tirade on how sloppy his writing was. "How can you call yourself Dai if you cannot even write?" _

_"I can write perfectly fine," Malik growled back, drawing on all of his patience and humanity to not strike the other man across the head. For more than three weeks now Malik performed his basic duties using the methods he learned as an assassin, and no one ever complained. Not directly, at least. He was getting his fill of tentative glances from apprentices, spies, and courtesans alike when he handed him their papers or maps or whatever it might be. Malik did not know how to draw maps himself, so he tried to the best of his ability to copy the references he found left behind. Usually they were messy- smeared with blots of ink, and inaccurate. Informants and novices often lost themselves and had to come back to the Bureau for reaffirmation, but none of them were brave enough to call him out for the errors that were obviously his. _

_"No, no, no!" The old Dai, whose name was Rahim, flipped through Malik's desecrated attempts at cartography. Finally when he'd had enough, he sat himself down on a stool and pulled another stool near, slapping its seat. "Come, sit, I will teach you!" _

_Even though Malik was slightly irritated by Rahim's insistence, he was nonetheless admiring of his enthusiasm. He'd lived so many days without passion that it was a breath of fresh air to be in the presence of another who had such zest for something- anything. _

_So Malik put on the incense and sat to learn the bare fundamentals of correct scribing and cartography from Rahim. An hour passed, then two- assassins and novices dropped in and out, surprised to see the former Dai in the bureau once more. All this time, Malik kept his mouth shut and allowed Rahim to go about his nostalgic duties as if he were still Dai himself. It gave the old man pleasure to return to a sort of familiarity. _

_Rahim, as Malik discovered from their conversation, was extensively travelled. Many of his reference maps were drawn from his own experience and memory. _

_"My God, that is shocking," marvelled Malik, picking up a particularly busy map of the border to India. "This detail is incredible." _

_"Yes, yes," Rahim chuckled warmly, flushing with pride. "All maps began with trade. Some places, such as Greece, I have not visited myself. But enough maps circulate that a good picture can be produced very quickly and with accuracy." _

_"But the places themselves change, do they not?"_

_"Of course! So it is your duty as Dai to mark down the changes as they are presented to you. And so for as long as you live, your maps will evolve with you." _

_"I see." Cartography, it seemed, was a lifelong passion. It was a practice for more ancient than either of them, and would remain on this earth far after they passed. _

_With Rahim, Malik learned to prepare his reed pen to prevent bleeding. The reed had to be pared and trimmed to create a nib, something Malik found difficulty in doing as he had but one hand. Afterwards, it was slit at its end only once. For larger scripts, one or more slits could be added to increase ink flow. The point of the nib was cut once, and the thickness and manner of cutting had a direct impact on the writing style. The nibbing was done on a block made of hard wood that Malik had regarded as a paperweight until now. _

_"Good, yes," Rahim looked over the nibs Malik created, feeling their tips for their point. "Very good, you learn quickly." Then he fell silent for a long time, just turning the nibs over and over in his weathered hands. After a while it looked like he'd said all he wished to say, and Malik had to snap to get his attention._

_"Ah!" Rahim jumped up, "yes, the ink!" _

_Pulling out Malik's inkpot, Rahim peered inside and his expression soured. "Ay ay, you're not mixing the ink properly. That's why your lines are cut so short." _

_"It has to be mixed?" That was a genuine shock for Malik. He'd noticed a changing consistency in his ink, but he attributed it to normal environmental factors that couldn't be helped. "I thought it came like that?" _

_Rahim shook his head a definitive negative. "When you use so much ink, it's very expensive to buy it in liquid form. Much easier and cheaper to mix it yourself…" using a stirrer, Rahim was mixing at the congealed ink and trying to break it apart. "Go find me some gum Arabic, gulls, and vitriol."_

_"I- what? I don't know where those things are." _

_"You'd best find them soon," said Rahim, who was looking now at a transcription Malik copied out some days ago. "See, I can tell your ink is not consistent. Not properly mixed, so it is a very acidic and encaustic ink that burns the paper which it is applied to." He clicked his tongue and smoothed his fingers over the paper where the ridges were prominent. _

_Grumbling all the while, Malik went off to the storeroom to find the items Rahim mentioned. He eventually discovered them clearly labelled and set out in the open the entire time- he'd walked right past them many times and never even questioned their existence or use. But when he returned to the workroom, he found Rahim curled up into himself._

_"Dai!" Malik cried instinctively, used to calling the old Dai by his title even though it was no longer his. "What's going on?" He awkwardly dropped the packages and jars on the table and rushed over to Rahim, who was clutching Malik's old writing in his hand and breathing so deeply. _

_The old man wheezed, "ay, tis nothing." A few tenuous seconds later, and the world seemed to make sense again. Rahim was back to normal, and grabbed the packages off the table as if nothing happened. Without further preamble, he showed Malik how to mix gum arabic, pulverized gulls, and vitriol together into a fine permanent ink. _

_"Honey, vinegar, or salt is very good to add as well to prevent mold. If you can afford it, of course," Rahim went on, "resist the urge to perfume your ink. We don't want targets smelling us out! Now," he handed a newly created reed pen to Malik, who grasped it gracelessly between his fingers. "Try writing something."_

_"What should I write?"_

_"A name, maybe." _

_Slowly, with as much precision as he could muster, Malik wrote with loops and dots the name of his beloved._

_Rahim peered at it and frowned. "Hope?" _

_"Sure." _

_Sensing that some barrier was breached, Rahim quickly moved on and did not question. "Good, now I will show you a trick that will help the ink set faster…" he jumped off his seat and opened a drawer under the workbench that Malik did not even know held anything of import- and drew out a basin of sand. What? Malik couldn't follow the train of thought and blinked twice. Finally Rahim indulged in his ignorance and explained, "put the paper in the basin face down and don't touch it! Let it set and then blow… Maybe Allah will blow your hope towards you." _

_"I pray for it," said Malik under his breath, holding up the sheet of parchment so it hit the light and all the shine of the ink was so startling against the blank canvas. Aasha. Down it went then, into the sand. _

* * *

They settled into an inn and they went about their practiced motions of disguise. Altair pretended to be Aasha's husband and the innkeeper waved them along. There was a time when she asserted Altair was her brother- same for Malik, Abbas, and Kadar when she went on missions with them. But now their physical differences were so marked that the alibi would never work. Even with her face covered, there was no way that the two could be related as anything but husband and wife. Altair had light, honey tinted skin, with bright eyes like molten metal. Aasha's skin was darker, and her eyes were brown and quiet. Perhaps they could be brother and sister of different mothers and the same father, but that would take too long to explain.

And this disguise was necessary, for if she were not his wife and not his family, then why was she walking with him? Always she kept six paces behind him, and Altair had to suppress his urge to look back to ensure she was alright and in fact still following. Under the supervision of the innkeeper, Aasha could not do much but look on as Altair tethered his horses to a post and fed her a dinner of barley and sorghum.

"Your eyes are very light. Are you what they call _poulain_?" The innkeeper asked Altair, "was your mother of the Faithful and your father a Frank?"

"No," the assassin replied very simply, and pursed his lips.

This time, they were not novices and they would not sleep in hammocks in the courtyard- certainly not in the rain! Altair paid for a room, conjuring coins from who knows where. He did not like to stay at inns, but there was no conceivable way to pitch a camp in the middle of such rain. He'd had quartan fever once, and it would have killed him had Omar not saved him. And now he was dead… he was still trying to digest the information.

"I don't like this town," said Altair as soon as they were alone. Immediately he stripped his hood and began to unclasp the buckles that held his weapons to his body. On the other hand, Aasha removed her drenched headscarf and ran both hands through her hair, relieved! Finally! They stripped themselves down and hung their clothes to dry on a line traversing the room. The furniture was simple- a cot, a table, a few coarse cushions, a basin for washing, a pitcher of water. It was obviously not a room meant for royalty. The smell permeating the room reminded her of sweat and mildew- it was not very pleasant.

"Why?" Aasha rummaged through their saddlebags and sighed- everything was wet. They had literally nothing to wear.

"They are too close to the Christians. I imagine several Franj armies crossed through here… impressive that it hasn't been looted to death. Is there a dry tunic?"

"No," she lamented, sighing. "You can look at me, you know."

Altair kept staring at the wall as he spoke. He was bare-chested by now, and was trying to dry himself off with the towel he found hanging over a basin in the corner. He felt like he'd been wet and cold all his life, and his teeth chattered despite himself. "I'm afraid to."

She gathered her hair in her hands and squeezed the water out of them, wishing he'd offered to let her dry off first. "Why? Is a wall more interesting than me?"

"I hope you aren't naked."

"I'm not. I'm wearing an undershirt." It was soaked, however, and she just wanted it off her skin. But that was never going to happen since Altair was in the same room anyway. Not covering her head was already a radical move- with Malik it would be alright, but certainly not with Altair.

Said man slowly turned around, locked eyes with Aasha for an instant, and went about his way like nothing happened. "Tomorrow the rain should stop, and we'll make way for Acre again. Do you know the situation very well?"

"No," she replied, picking at the wet undershirt that stuck to her flesh. "I've heard bits and pieces from Malik at best… I don't know exactly what's going on."

"The Franj took Acre back, and they are wanting to reclaim more of the land Salah ad-Din has regained. If I had a map, I could show you." He shrugged his strong shoulders and went to check that all the windows were well patched. The inn could not afford glass, so they had wooden windows which worked on hinges and were able to be opened and closed. It was an obvious sign of European influence. "The German king Barbarossa drowned while on the trip from Europe. If he'd survived, the Crusader army would total in the hundreds of thousands, all skilled knights and cavalry. Now King Richard leads the Franj armies, and they are still so many. But you knew all this."

She nodded, lighting some of the candles in the darkened room with a flintstone. At least now they had light. "King Richard wants to take back Jerusalem, and he has made Acre the Crusaders' headquarters."

Her assertion was wrong, but Altair did not correct her. "It's where all the supplies come in, at least. Robert de Sable is a very organized man- I must give him credit for that."

"So…" she held her hands over the small flame and sighed. "What's his next objective?"

"Richard knows he must control the port of Jaffa before marching on Jerusalem. He has already fought several battles with Salah ad-Din, none of them fairly decisive."

"So why are _you_ after these men?"

"Al Mualim believes they are corrupt in their power, and are scheming to take the land for themselves."

"…do you believe it?"

"I don't… know…" He wasn't able to kill de Naplouse. He had never, _ever_, failed this miserably.

She was so close to him that the heat he radiated made the candle under her palms seem nearly inexistent. She wished she could put her hands on him instead, but she could not. To do so would be to imply things neither of them was able to commit to. "Don't you want to find out the truth?"

His eyes drifted to her, and his lids were drooping. "I only know what Al Mualim told me."

Infuriated by the despondent statement, she rose to her knees and pushed him hard on the shoulders, making his eyes go wide. "You used to be so curious. What's happened?" She was shivering, and she couldn't keep her voice even. The wet clothes that clung to her skin was draining the heat right out of her.

"Nothing happened!" Altair shot back, "just that the people close to me died because I was too stubborn to listen or too eager." He did not want to discuss the subject further, not with such a sour mood. "And what about _you?_ You think you're on some crusade for truth now, too?"

"I didn't think of it like that," she said quietly. "I just wanted to find Nadia… she's always protected me, Altair. S-she taught me how to live, she was my best friend. I came with no other expectation than that, but now- yes. I am on a crusade for truth."

Immediately he understood what she was getting at and he twisted his body in an attempt to look distracted. It did not work.

"What happened at the Bedouin camp back there, Altair? Why did they know you?"

"I'm tired, it's late. Come on and let's see what blankets they've left us with." His knees clicked as he stood, and he extended a hand to Aasha.

Why did all men have to skirt around the truth? "Altair, no! I want you to tell me!"

"It wouldn't do any good!"

"How- _why?_ Altair, I want to know how you know them! And why were they blaming you?" Now they were both on their feet and livid. "Be honest!"

"Pah!" he spat on the ground and turned his back. "Like you've been honest with me."

She followed without missing a step, "What? What is that supposed to mean?"

Altair pivoted on his heel abruptly and grabbed her by her arms. "You're not here because you really care for Nadia. _Admit it_- you're here because you want to escape Malik and be with me. You're here because you're lost and you're willing to try anything to find your way!"

Now her voice reached higher pitches- her heartbeat thrummed in her ears so loudly that she barely heard herself. What was it? Shame, surprise, indignity, disappointment, guilt…? "Why would you think that?!"

"Because you stammer!"

"I was cold!"

A harsh knock sounded at their door and in passed the innkeeper's muffled voice, "be quiet, _please!"_

Like reprimanded children, they looked down in shame and silenced themselves immediately. They stayed like that until they heard the innkeeper's footsteps fade away.

"I'm sorry," they both said at the exact same time, and they caught themselves and laughed nervously. After everything they'd been through together, even after their kiss, they were both independent parallel lines still finding it awkward to converge.

It was Altair who spoke next, in a soft and gravelly tone. "I didn't know you were cold."

* * *

_Nadia shut the book she was pretending to read and announced that she wanted to be married one day. _

_Used to such outbursts from her friend at this point, Aasha barely looked up from her own work. Al Mualim was trying to experiment in teaching Persian by having his accomplices and novices read classical Persian poetry. Some young men and women picked up the language quickly while others struggled. Aasha was determined to succeed, though in the back of her mind she knew it was a lost cause. Learning those sparse bits of Frankish was already too much, on top of learning Arabic over her desert language. "Why?" She asked, mostly to appease Nadia. And because it was expected._

_The courtesan flipped onto her back and jangled her glass bangles, giggling all the while. "I want to meet a rich, handsome, young man… he'll marry me, carry me to his bed…"_

_Aasha burst out laughing, which roused an annoyed look from Nadia. The city girl grabbed her book and hit Aasha over the head with it, indignant. _

_"Ay!" Not to be outdone, Aasha took the cushion she was sitting on and threw it hard at Nadia's face. "Whore!" Though the word was harsh, it was spoken along a line of laughter and Nadia was not offended. She'd already had her time to deal with the inevitable jokes and insults hurled at her as a result of her trade. _

_"Rather a whore than a virgin!" _

_The gypsy girl gasped dramatically and covered her mouth, and Nadia melted into a fit of hysterics. Every week they sought each other and spent time alone on a rooftop pavilion. They snuck away from their duties and escaped from the world here under bright silks and banners. Here they could throw away their headscarves (which now they had to wear without exception. Al Mualim was experimenting with that as well) and say whatever they wanted. That pavilion was a microcosm of a perfect world, where women could profess love for many men and be respected, where topics of sex and religion and everything in between were open for discussion. _

_"You know, I snuck into the garden at night once…" Nadia dropped her voice even though there was no need to. She winked conspiratorially, and Aasha shrieked in giddy surprise, "you did not!" _

_"I did!" The implication was clear. "And guess who was there?" She was so excited to continue the story that she didn't even wait for a guess. "Abbas!" _

_"What!" Aasha inched closer and pressed up against her friend, shaking her with a wide grin on her face. "And who was he with?" _

_"Sunbul," said Nadia, "the pretty one."_

_"And? What did you see?" _

_The concubine's frame was wracked with giggles. Slowly, tremulously, she raised one pinky finger. "His dick was this small!" _

_"Noooooo!" Aasha couldn't take it and collapsed into a hooting laughter, clapping her hands, and she was joined quickly by Nadia who also couldn't take the image without falling into a fit. _

_"And-and-and," Nadia fought for her breath and wiped the tears from her eyes. "And then I talked to Sunbul about it afterwards… worst lay she'd ever had! Said he slobbered all over her and came in a minute!" _

_"Noooooooooooooooooo!" They hooted and hollered even more, making lewd gestures and taking turns pretending to be Sunbul and being disgusted by Abbas. They both agreed he was gross anyway. After the laughter died down, Aasha and Nadia tried to go back to their studying but failed miserably, gushing out bubbles of laughter randomly as they thought back to the image of Abbas' pinky-sized dick. _

_Eventually Aasha declared it hopeless and stowed away her books, asking instead, "how are weddings like in Damascus?" _

_"Gold," Nadia sighed dreamily, "lots and lots of gold. And henna. I'd get my hands painted, have to sit there for hours. Months would be put into preparations- clothing, decorations, food, jewellery, makeup, and did I mention the clothing? Then on the day of the wedding, I'd get dolled up in all sorts of fine cloths and gems, then I'd sit there all covered while the men celebrated." She paused for a while, imagining the scene that she'd never have. "And then my father would negotiate an agreement with my future husband, who would be rich and handsome and young. It's all about land and money, and my husband would pay a handsome sum for me! …But it's all for show since the agreement would be discussed long beforehand." _

_"I see…" Aasha was trying hard to visualize a city wedding. The major difference was that in the desert, the woman carried a dowry over to her husband's home. In the city, the man paid in gold and precious things for the right to marry the woman. _

_"And what about you?" she turned her eyes towards the gypsy girl, curious all of a sudden. "How are weddings like in the desert?" _

_Aasha flushed, the pleasant memories of her sister being prepared for her wedding sliced and wrecked by the horrible images of their enslavement under Abdul. "I don't know about the wedding part… I've never seen one myself. My sister died before she could get married." _

_"Oh…" before Nadia could say she was sorry for asking, a torrent of words came out of the other girl's mouth-_

_"But I remember henna, too. My sister Radha was very patient with them, like she is with all things I think. Dresses and makeup and jewellery were made for her as well. I helped to make them, stirring powdered amethyst into mutton fat for eyeshadow… just that set us back many months in terms of wealth. We couldn't afford gems, only a little bit of powder… So we made Radha a gem. We massaged her skin with jasmine oil and turmeric, even saffron. We fed her well so she shined like the sun." The memory of her sister, laughing and so vital, choked her. "She was beautiful…" _

_Nadia, too, was affected. The two girls sat in silence for a long time, watching the sun begin to be swallowed by the faraway mountains. "That sounds wonderful, Aasha." _

_"Yes… but we won't-"_

_"No," Nadia snapped abruptly, "don't say it. Don't say we won't. One day you might well meet a rich, handsome, and young man, and you will invite me to your wedding!" _

_Aasha smiled, "of course! And same goes for you, hmm..?" _

_In response, the courtesan rolled her eyes and fell back onto the cushions, grinning. At this time a horrible idea came to Aasha, and she slowly crept forward until she leaned over Nadia. _

_"And imagine that! Your rich, handsome, and young husband carrying you to your marriage bed, dumping you on it and disrobing…" She whispered this in Nadia's ear, and delighted in the way the other girl sighed in giddy delusion. "and then…" Aasha poked Nadia in the thigh with her pinky finger- "his dick is like that!"_

_And Nadia grabbed her by the hair and pulled her down, laughing hysterically. _

* * *

The cot could have been wide enough to accommodate two people if they were smart about it, but Altair was a presence in himself and demanded so much space that Aasha feared she was going to find herself on the floor come morning. In the night, Altair snored. He was louder than the thunder rolling outside, and Aasha did not sleep restfully. Her thoughts kept wandering back to the sight of the Bedouin camp- those familiar tents, the clothing… she couldn't remember the exact shape and style of clothing. The men and women blurred in her mind into blotches of moving color.

In the night his arms came to encircle her, and she woke. An hour later he drew his arms back and turned on his side. She was awake then, too. Some hours before the sun dawned, he turned round and pressed his nose to the back of her neck and made a contented sound. Warmed by his body heat and the quilt they shared, Aasha didn't even mind that she was still mostly damp.

What would her life be like if she were not captured by Abdul? What if she never found Masyaf? She took a deep breath and shut her eyes. It is possible, then, that she still would have met Altair. But what about Malik?

Altair stopped snoring abruptly and did not movie. He did not even breathe, the marked lack of breath making Aasha roll her eyes. The rain had stopped at last, and the silence was made even more obvious. Slowly, Altair began to breathe again, taking pains to control the lengths of his breath.

He was pretending! She smiled. "You are terrible."

Altair's chest quaked when he chuckled. "Did you sleep well?"

"No."

He gently tucked away the lengths of hair covering her face- a lover's touch. Aasha sniffed and looked away, thinking it cruel. He wouldn't touch her like that if they were not playing a role, if they were anywhere but here. "Too many thoughts?"

Yes, she had _ferocious_ thoughts. _Unwomanly_ thoughts. She dreamt of Nadia and remembered how the other girl was so forward in life- blunt, like how _she_ was supposed to be. Interesting, since they affected each other so that Nadia got the gypsy's candid honesty and Aasha got the city girl's philosophical modesty. She wanted to push Altair onto his back and climb over him, even dominate him, let him have all of her and take him in return. Damn the rest of the world if they thought her a whore! Life was short and cruel and brutal. And yet she couldn't touch Altair without feeling like she was crossing some bold yet invisible line, and she was afraid of losing him. She, to most men, was already a damaged good. "Hmmm, yes." All the questions she had the night before were still hanging in the air, unspoken. She couldn't take it. "Altair, if I speak the truth, will you?" These questions had to be addressed or they were never going to get anywhere.

The corners of his mouth quirked up. She watched the scar on his lower lip dancing and wanted to kiss it. "I will," he agreed, clearly interested. "And neither of us will be offended, and we won't think any more or less than the other person for asking. Deal?"

"I'm afraid now," she joked at him, "but it's a deal." The curiosity was too great and she traced his scar with her index finger, marvelling at how smooth it felt. Altair obviously had his own row of questions lined up, since he immediately launched into one of them: "Did you bleed when you slept with Malik?"

She'd expected something like that. "I did," she replied quickly to get it out of the way. No need for explanation there. "Do you regret that I came with you?"

"No, it was what I wanted all along."

Oh. She breathed a sigh of relief, and the got frustrated that Altair wasn't explaining himself. Instead he was asking another question of his own, breaking her train of thought completely- "Why did you come with me?"

Last time he asked her this question, she yelled. This time, Aasha was careful to keep her temper. "Three reasons, Altair. In fact, the three of them might all be illogical." She paused to think about how silly she must be sounding. "First, I wanted out of that damned Bureau. I wanted to go somewhere different that was not the market or the garden, and I couldn't do that on my own. Second, I wanted to follow where you went because I miss the time we spent together. Third, I wanted to find Nadia and bring her back- she deserves better than that, Altair." She let him take it all in with quiet eyes, and she couldn't tell whether he trusted her or not. "I want to add too that not all these reasons are equal to one another. I could have survived in the Bureau anyway, I could survive without you, but I felt I had to help Nadia myself. Something just… had to change."

"Can I ask another question? A follow up?"

"That's cheating!"

"I'll answer your next question in very good detail if you let me."

Intrigued by this strange proposal, Aasha agreed. After all, she'd already said the most embarrassing and telling confessions.

"Why help Nadia yourself? Why not trust me to get her out? You do remember that I knew her too."

"No," she said, "you don't know her like I do. Altair, I feel many things for her. I'm jealous of her some days, I pity her on others, but she… completed me at Masyaf. She was my first and best friend, and we took after each other. In a way, I became her and she became me. Kind of funny, actually." Funny, and upsetting in a way. "When I went to be Malik's… _assistant_, I neglected her… I didn't respond to her letters because I was so caught up in this new world that I told myself I could thrive in. And now she is captured and mayhap in danger-" she sat up suddenly, her breath coming in big gulps. "A-altair, why are we even still here? We should be on the road! Nadia might be dying and your target might be escaping!"

Altair considered this and wriggled on the cot. "No, I want to ask you more questions."

"_Altair! _Get dressed! Come on, it's _morning_!"

He sighed and sat up. "Your loss." He wanted her to ask him that question she asked last night, because now he had an answer. He hoped she wouldn't forget to ask, because she needed to know.

He was mulling over the scene all day- a Bedouin camp burned to the ground by Crusaders, in the middle of the desert, for no good reason. And how was it his fault? Altair couldn't make sense of it. Even more troubling was that Omar was dead and Mudhil and Amir were gone… Altair was never sure exactly what he wanted from them, but ironically enough, now that they were gone he had a clear idea.

To his side, Aasha thrilled on her new horse (that she'd _acquired_ in the town when Altair was not looking) and shouted her joy. She felt like a young thing again, a girl who had no other goals or responsibilities than to get from one place to another. And when they were alone, she cheered and shouted all she liked. Altair could have taken a travelled road, and yet he didn't. This was for two reasons: one, to avoid detection. Two, so they could be alone. He knew well enough that as soon as they merged into a road, Aasha would have to keep silent and cast her eyes to the ground.

They shared their meals on horseback- much of their food was destroyed by the rain, but they had dried dates to pass around, and cubes of spiced meat to chew on. Their horses handled the wet sand gracefully as Arabian horses were known to do. Frankish horses, on the other hand, were too heavy and their hooves sank in, stranding their riders. The sky was a clear, burnished blue, and it was beautiful to look at.

Finally, Aasha remembered to ask the question. "Were you responsible for the burning at that Bedu camp?"

"No," Altair asserted firmly, twisting in his saddle to look at her so she'd know he was telling the truth. "At least, not to my knowledge. I had quartan fever once and they took me in, that's how I know them. Sometimes I pass by and take advantage of their hospitality, and I bring them gifts. I wouldn't know how I could be responsible for…" his voice trailed off as he made the connections in his mind. Maybe someone wanted to show him that he was not invincible by hurting the people close to him. Who would do such a thing? _Many people would_, the voice in his head answered.

"Altair… when we were riding away, I heard…"

He dipped his head and ground his teeth. _Damn_. "Yes, you heard right."

"I heard them say, 'bring us back our brothers Mudhil and Amin.'. Altair, those are the names of _my brothers_."

"…They _are_ your brothers." Aasha pulled tight on her reins and her horse crested a low ridge and stopped there. Altair leaned to the right and his horse turned around. "Aasha, I'm sorry."

He expected her to cry, maybe go into hysterics, maybe even hit him. She didn't do either of those things, just looked at him from above, with the sun shining a heavenly outline behind her. "Why didn't you say anything, Altair? You knew my family was out there all this time."

"So did you," he challenged, surprised that she was taking this news so well. "When you went to Jerusalem I told you I could help, but you didn't want anything to do with trying to find them."

"You never told me outright!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Why not?" Not like it would have changed anything, Aasha knew. She would have listened and then sulked about it, and in the end she wouldn't be brave enough to go back and see them.

"Because if it were me, I wouldn't want it either!" Altair huffed and turned his horse back towards their invisible path. Aasha pushed at her stirrups and led her own horse to follow. "If you came and told me you'd found my mother, who I thought was dead all this time, I wouldn't welcome it either."

That just made it more confusing! "So why were you so friendly with them, Altair? Why get so close to _my family_ if you didn't want to somehow," she swallowed heavily, "somehow, some time, tell me? When _were_ you going to say anything, damn it?"

Again Altair turned, and this time so violently and suddenly that their horses' heads nearly knocked together. He looked her straight in the eyes and shouted, "after I asked your father for permission to marry you!"

"I-" stunned, she felt her legs get soft. She lost all control of her limbs. If her horse bucked now, she had no doubt she'd get flung.

"And now," the assassin went on, distress written all over his face, "now your father is dead and your brothers are gone. I don't know where they are, Aasha! I'm sorry, I don't know if it's my fault. I don't understand… Augh!" With that, he reared left and spurred his horse into a full gallop.

"Altair! Wait!" She desperately pushed her own horse onwards to follow, but he was a better rider and could take more speed. Then the full impact of what she'd just heard dawned on her, and the chase was forgotten. Her father was dead? "Ya Allah," she breathed, and her heaves for breath turned into dry sobs. _Please cry_, she demanded of herself, _please cry so it would make sense_. But there were no tears, just a horrible ripping pain in her chest. She moaned and bent over the mane of her horse, shuddering out all the grief she never let touched her. Now they assaulted her in barrages, one after the other, hitting her like slaps and blows. Her horse's ears twitched and he snorted softly, as though acknowledging her sadness.

"Abbun…" she whimpered, letting go of the reins altogether and hugging the horse's muscled neck. She used to hug her father like that, right around his waist as he worked. What had she done? Not only had she abandoned Nadia, she'd abandoned her family! They had been there all this time and she'd just… _how dare she live on?_ Omar gave her necklaces with beads of clay before, and now that she was bigger she took the beads apart and strung them into a pendant that hung at her collar. Frantically, she reached under the edge of her kuffiyah and grappled for the necklace she knew was there, and when she touched it that just released another wave of anguished pain. "No…."

She could not cry because she could not give herself completely to sadness. Altair ruined it by letting loose that he wanted to marry her- _marry_ her! _Her!_ Now she found herself upset at him for having been so honest. Perhaps their talks stirred up more problems than they solved. She rubbed her horse`s mane and hummed. "You are not my Maymun, but you too shall have a name."

If anyone asked, Aasha would say –stiffly- that she didn't steal this horse. This horse was tied to the stables' pole, one of many horses the inn kept for sale. While Altair untied his own mare, this particular horse- a beautiful chestnut beast with a white spear-shaped marking on his nose, nudged her. He followed her every movement, smelled her hair and nibbled at it too. Aasha fell in love, and when Altair turned around she was already heaving a saddle onto its back and climbing onto it, the rope tying the horse to the post cut.

"Hyah!" Onwards, then.

* * *

King Richard snapped his fingers. "What is amiss with you today, man? You are here but your mind is elsewhere."

"Ah," Jacques shook himself out of his fatigue-induced trance and tried to focus his eyes on the King. He'd forgotten how to compose an apology on the spot, and instead just stared blankly. From the corner of his eye, Robert de Sable was leaning over the tactical maps laid over the table- and _snickering_.

"Have pity, Richard." Robert then clapped the King on the back and issued a sly smile to the knight, "I've been working him very hard. Look, he's swaying in his seat."

Resentful of the way Robert poked fun at him so cruelly, Jacques cleared his throat and straightened himself. In this conference now were the leaders of the land; Sibrand of the Knights Teutonic, de Naplouse of the Knights Hospitaller, the acting regent of Acre, and of course, de Sable of the Knights Templar and King Richard himself. He was one of the few knights given the honour to sit in on this meeting, and he wasn't about to be made into a laughingstock.

He hadn't slept for two days now. Jacques tried every trick he knew to get Robert to talk, tried to infiltrate the King's fortress dungeons and prisons, tried to bribe his way into the Hospitaller dungeons… he found no opening and not even a glimmer of hope. No prisoner in the books by the name of Imad El-Amin, no other way to distinguish him among the throngs of other emaciated Saracens. He did everything Robert ordered, said everything he told him to say, told him all he knew- what was even the point of secrecy if he could save Imad's life?

There was a time when Jacques believed he was fighting for God. And then it became clear to him that the Christians were fighting for land, for money… Then it became for vengeance and for pride… and now… if not for love, what reason did he have to fight on?

"The prisoners," said the King, his attention already focused away, "are they a draw on your resources?" he was speaking to de Naplouse, who shook his balding head fervently in the positive.

"They are, my King. Two thousand seven hundred of them, packed into my dungeons! The drain on supplies which could better be directed towards the future march to Jerusalem is astounding."

Richard hiked his foot up on a stool and rested an elbow on a raised knee, contemplating the fate of these Saracen prisoners. No word from Salah ad-Din yet, and so what was he to do with these prisoners?

Robert de Sable made verbal the thoughts on the King's mind. "Saladin is dragging out the process, by God's Holy legs. He's stalling us in Acre while he gathers up his forces!"

The accusation caused a murmur to go through the congregation, "then… what are we to do with the lot of them?"

"Slaughter them!" Cried Robert, and he was so passionate in this delivery that spittle flew from his lips. "Kill them and have Salah ad-Din know that the Christians are not to be manipulated!" A collective gasp went through the room, and the men held their breaths. Jacques, in particular, was horrified. This was not what the Poor Knights of the Temple stood for! He squeezed the quill he held in his pen until it made ugly blotches on the parchment he was supposed to be scribing on. Now he wished he had Gerard de Ridefort back. The man was an idiot, but at last he had honour. Now Jacques looked to King Richard, desperate.

Richard waved off the radical suggestion with a dismissive motion of the head. "I will not kill the prisoners. I have my honour as a King, as Saladin boasts his own 'mercy'. I won't lose face to him."

"But my liege," interrupted de Naplouse, taking two steps forward and darting his eyes to and fro to ensure he had Robert's support. "Monsieur de Sable is right- the prisoners anchor us to Acre when we could be marching on Jaffa! Think of it, all the time we're losing!"

Certainly the King was aware now that the Templars and the Hospitallers, the two strongest military orders in Outremer, were against him. Still, if Richard Plantagenet was known for anything, it was for his stubbornness. "So we can wait!" He banged his fist on the conference table, startling his advisors. "I will not sacrifice the dignity of our cause to-"

"We cannot stall any longer!" Robert called on Jacques then, "Sir Jacques, tell us now how our treasury is dwindling."

All bodies rotated themselves to turn towards Jacques, and King Richard's eyes narrowed. For that one moment, the knight realized he had the undivided attention of all those in power in Outremer. He could expose Robert de Sable for the adulterant son of a whore he was. He could expose the fact that Garnier de Naplouse for his perversions of medical practice, and his increasing business in trade. He could expose Sibrand for the fact that he was cutting down innocent scholars and Saracens in Acre's very streets! He could unveil the fact that the Bishop of Acre was taking money from the royal treasury to fund brothels. He could say all of this, and he would have Richard's ear. He was never to have such a chance again.

"Our treasury is not at a critical state," he said instead, very slowly and meticulously. The skin under Robert's left eye twitched in the darkest displeasure, but Jacques wasn't deterred. "We can sustain the prisoners for another six months or so." Imad was one prisoner out of that two thousand seven hundred, and all of them deserved to live. He wasn't about to sanction a mass execution.

Richard scratched at his beard and scrutinized Jacques with a set of eyes that appeared to be smiling. Robert, on the other hand, was furious. "My King," he said, "allow me to bring forth some of the Saracen prisoners who will support my claim."

Now Richard was faced with a dilemma. If he did not allow this, it would show weakness. If he did, Robert just might gain an upper hand. He was not going to be weak. He seated himself at his throne and called for everyone to take their seats as well. "Go on then, let us hear what these prisoners have to say."

Before Jacques could get another wayward word in, the double doors to the conference room opened and three prisoners were dragged in by a number of soldiers. Immediately the knight jumped to his feet and cried out.

Two of these men were not prisoners. That was impossible, considering how well muscled and healthy they looked. Despite the bruises and swelling traversing their bodies, despite their dejected and bloodshot eyes, these two men were not captured in the siege of Acre. They did not bear the weight of war on their shoulders. Knowing Robert, these men were probably kidnapped off the streets somewhere, tortured, and were being made to tell a certain tale. The third man fit the role much better, for he was so thin that his joints were showing, as were his ribs. Jacques could see in the man's lean and sinewy arms that he was once a great and well-built warrior. It was horrible to see how he was now broken… so much for honour, so much for compassion towards the enemy.

Hearing his shout, the prisoners raised their weak heads- were they about to die?

It was then that Jacques saw… that the third prisoner was none other than Imad.

* * *

Altair didn't know very much about marriage, but he knew a thing or two about loss. When he was a boy and his father Umar was still alive, Altair frequently asked about his mother. Malik had a mother. So did Abbas. So where was his?

Umar was a man capable of convincing a king to hand over his crown if he were put to the task. But when it came to his deceased wife, Umar was powerless. He told Altair that her name was Cecille, and he wrote it down on a piece of parchment in Frankish so Altair could hold it. The strange markings didn't mean much to the young child, and he couldn't even pronounce the name properly. Umar said he called her Sisi, and that was easier to remember.

He said Sisi was strikingly beautiful, making a joke that otherwise Altair would not be so handsome. Sisi came on Crusade with her brother, a Count of Anjou, and settled in Jerusalem after the Franks conquered it. Umar was on a mission in Jerusalem and found her being harassed by some men. He stepped in to save her, and managed to scare off her harassers. She took one look at him and ran away, and Umar didn't think much of it until he was being chased by guards a year later and she managed to distract them. He thanked her afterwards, though his honour did not demand it. They fell madly –childishly- in love. It was an unlikely match, for generally Frankish men married Saracen women. But somehow they managed to court one another without one uttering Christ and the other saying Allah, and in fact they barely spoke to each other. They had very limited knowledge of each other's language, but the words of their movements –the prose of the eyes- was enough.

When she became with child, she ran away with Umar to Masyaf to escape marriage to a French knight.

Altair asked him, _what kind of woman was she?_

_Not like any you've ever met so far,_ Umar replied. Altair was too young to understand, and he didn't go into much further detail than to tell him that she was a woman in her own world. Umar would give anything to journey that world, pay pilgrimage to it, worship it, but he never managed to infiltrate that place in her head.

_I hope you don't fall in love with a woman like that,_ he told Altair, who was barely old enough to even begin to like girls. _Why?_ He asked his father.

_Because,_ said Umar, _you can give her a house, buy her clothes and jewellery, love and honour her, give her a child, give her everything you have and more, and still she will never be yours. I married her in the name of Allah and his Prophet, but He won't give her to me because I am not worthy._ Now she was dead, and she'd died free, leaving her husband and her son to all the pains and poverties of this world. _I just wanted to make her happy,_ he admitted proudly,_ at a time when I felt I'd reached the top, there she was to knock me to the bottom again._

Umar taught Altair very early on that _marriage doesn't mean anything_, and then contradicted himself. _But it is everything to me now. All I can say is that I have married her, that she is my wife, and this way I can be sure to see her when I go to Paradise._

And now Altair reflected on this seemingly cryptic conversation from twenty years in the past. He never thought he would ever even want to get married- he had no time to attend to a wife, no time to deal with a woman's nagging, and certainly no time to navigate the treacherous waters that was their temper. And if a woman expected him in their bed every night, she was going to be sorely disappointed. Not that Altair would ever commit the sin of adultery, of course. Just that his work as an assassin was a mistress that wouldn't leave him alone.

But he also saw, in the passage of time and in the way his body was beginning to deteriorate, that he would not be young forever. He would not have eternity on this world, and then where would he be? He'd have eternity in Paradise, all alone with no legacy to speak of- no children, no grandchildren, his family name shattered.

In a way, he was purchasing the right to see her in Paradise, as a wife was tied to her husband in soul. But Altair also knew- and he was very confident in this knowledge- that all women desired marriage. He'd seen concubines and spies alike break their loyalty to the Order, at the risk to their own lives, to marry in secret. He'd also seen the way Aasha quaked with excitement when she thought she was going to marry Malik and be happy with him. It took all of Altair's patience and honour to deliver her to him and let her have her way.

But Altair knew in his heart that they would be together. After all, Allah did say to him in a dream that the woman he'd come to marry would be made of _sand, fire, and wind_. Wasn't he ashamed that he was going to take Malik's love away from him? _No,_ because to him Aasha and Malik _never truly arrived at one another._

And now that she was dissatisfied and actively seeking him out, Altair saw a chance for himself. All the time he spent with Omar was puzzling even to him- now he saw it as a way of gaining his trust. Subconsciously, he wanted to marry her a long time ago- he just never admitted it to himself.

Umar was no longer alive, and Al Mualim was never going to let him marry before he squeezed every inch of life out of him. But for their wedding to be legitimate and blessed, an agreement had to be reached with their fathers. Altair felt his father would agree to the union, but Omar had to give Altair permission to marry his daughter- the pleasure of Allah was in the pleasure of the father. He would like, one day, for her to be reunited with her father and reconcile with her past. Altair himself was never going to be able to do this, with both his parents dead, but at least Aasha had a chance.

_Had_ a chance. If only Altair was not a coward, if only he'd had the sense to tell her.

"You shouldn't have taken off like that," her voice carried to him when she finally caught up, "you scared me."

They were coming close to merging with the main road now, and the sounds of people were growing louder. Oxcarts clattering, wares being transported, men shouting at one another and laughing- so much noise, when Altair's mind was drawing a static blank. "I wanted your father's blessing."

She sniffled indignantly, and Altair was suddenly afraid that he'd made her cry. He wouldn't turn back to look at her, though, just kept moving forward. "You know I'm damaged," she told him.

"If I wanted to marry a pot, I would've gone to the Dai at Damascus."

Her low giggling assured him that everything was all right. He smiled too, wondering what great force of nature could make him a joker. He wanted to talk more on the subject, but their time was running out. They could see now the walls of Acre, decorated with coloured pennons and banners of the Franj noble houses, smell the scent of the sea carrying over the port. Where the vultures circled the sky in the desert, here the sky was ruled by gulls. The people squeezing between them, some on foot, others on horses and others still on carts, were a mixture of Saracen and Franj. Traders and pilgrims of all sorts came from all over the land to the Port of Acre, one of the richest cities of the Holy Land.

In the summer, the plains and hills around Acre gleamed bright green. In June and July, these plains were peppered with pink and white oleanders, golden daisies, blue myrtle bloom, and countless other wild herbs and flowers. In the winter, however, Acre had nothing more to boast than the bright pennons of the Frankish knights hung on its walls.

And inside those walls was Garnier de Naplouse. Altair gripped his reins and lowered his head, letting his hood shadow his face. Taking his lead, Aasha pursed her mouth and pulled her scarf together so her face was better hidden. She started to slow her pace but Altair twisted in his saddle and shook his head at her- _stay with me,_ he mouthed.

* * *

_End of Chapter 18._

* * *

Three guesses who the other two prisoners are?

**Thank you for reading after all this time. *Dumps giant chapter* If you've read, please leave thoughts and feedback!**** :) **


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